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PLEASANT MEMORIES 



PLEASANT LANDS. 



BY 






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MS. L. H/ SIGOUMEY. 



<; In a strange land, 
Kind things, however trivial, reach the heart, 
And through the heart the head, clearing away 
The narrow notions that grow up at home, 
And in their place, grafting Good-will to All." 

Rogers's Italy. 



T HI ED ED ITION 




BOSTON AND CAMBRIDGE : 
JAMES MUNROE AND COMPANY. 

M DCCC LVI. 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1S56, by 

James Munroe and Company, 

in the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the District of Massachusetts. 



RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE : 
PRINTED BY H. O. HOUGHTON AND C0MPAN7. 






HON. S. G. GOODRICH, 

WHOSE PEN HAS MADE HIM KNOWN IN MANY LANDS, 

THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED, 

AS A PLEASANT MEMORY OF EARLY FRIENDSHIP, 

BY THE AUTHOR. 



PUBLISHER'S NOTICE. 



A new edition of " Pleasant Memories of 
Pleasant Lands" having been called for, its 
Publishers think proper to say, that it has had 
not only the careful revision of the Author, but 
numerous additions from her Journal, which 
they think will not fail to increase its interest 
with the public, by whom it was received with 
such marked favor at its first appearance. 

Boston, December, 20, 1855. 



PREFACE 



A traveller in climes so generally visited, as 
those which have given subjects to the present vol- 
ume, will find it difficult to say what has not been 
said before. By every celebrated stream or mountain, 
amid the ivy of every mouldering ruin, at the gate of 
every castle, palace and cathedral, he doubtless met 
other travellers, with their note-books; and what he 
saw and described, they also may see and describe, 
perchance with a more glowing pencil. 

Yet if he must resign the prospect of finding un- 
trodden paths, he may still fix upon some spots where 
it will be profitable both to muse and to record impres- 
sions ; and if he forfeit all right of discovery, may at 
least retain the power of promoting pleasurable feel- 
ings. With such hopes the following pages have been 
drawn forth and modified from the notes of a Journal 



Xll PREFACE. 

regularly kept, during a tour which occupied the 
greater part of a year. 

Their writer has not sought to dwell upon the dark 
shades of the countries that it was her privilege to visit. 
It might have been easy to fix the eye upon the blem- 
ishes that appertain to each, as it is to discern foibles 
in the most exalted character. Yet it is but a losing 
office to quit our own quiet fireside, and throw ourselves 
upon the stormy billows, for the sake of finding fault. 
This might be done with less fatigue and peril at home. 
She might doubtless have found a thorn here and there, 
but the rose was sweeter, and she preferred rather to 
press the flower, than to preserve the thorn. She 
might easily have gathered stinging nettles or bram- 
bles, but what she has avoided, multitudes who go the 
same road can find, and cull if they choose. So the 
lovers of poignancy may be gratified, from many 
sources, should they be compelled to pronounce this 
volume vapid and void of discrimination. 

" When I have called the bad, bad" says Goethe, 
" how much is gained by that ? He who would work 
aright, had better busy himself to show forth and to 
do that which is good." And, methinks, he who leaves 
his native land, to take note of foreign realms, and is 
brought again in safety to his own home and people, 
owes not only a great debt of gratitude to his Pre- 



PREFACE. Xlll 

server, but a new service of charity to those whom He 
has made. It would seem that an obligation was laid 
on him not to use the knowledge thus acquired to em- 
barrass and embroil God's creatures, but to throw a 
filament of love, though it were only as a spider's web, 
to strengthen the amity of the nations. 

And now, dear reader, if any such there be, who 
shall have patiently plodded through these my pages, 
thou art, for this very kindness, as a brother or sister 
unto me. And as we have here communed together of 
pleasant things, without perchance having seen each 
other's faces in the flesh, may we be so blessed as to 
dwell together in that country where no stranger sor- 
roweth, where no wanderer goeth forth from his home 
with tears, and " where there is no more sea." 

L. H. S. 



CONTENTS 



Page 
PREFACE XI 

THE FIRST THREE DAYS AT SEA .... 3 

THE VISITANT 7 

DIVINE WORSHIP ON TnE DEEP 11 

THE GERANIUM PLANT 17 

APPROACH TO ENGLAND 22 

LIVERPOOL 32 

CHESTER 40 

KENDAL 49 

THE DOVE'S NEST 55 Y 

WORDSWORTH AND SOUTHEY 60 v 

CARLISLE 68 

HOLYROOD 73 

HAWTHORNDEN 87 

GLASGOW 94 

LOCH LOMOND 105 

CORRA LINN 109 

EDINBURGH 112 

MELROSE AND ABBOTSFORD 120 

HUNTLEY-BURN 133 

SHEEP AMONG THE CHEVIOTS .... 136 

NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE 140 

YORK AND ITS MINSTER 147 

BIRMINGHAM AND SHEFFIELD 155 

CHATS WORTH AND HADDON HALL . . . .165 



XVI CONTENTS. 

MATLOCK 

THE SLEEPING SISTERS IN LICHFIELD CATHEDRAL 

STRATFORD-UPON-AVON 

WARWICK CASTLE 

KENILWORTH 

WESTMINSTER ABBEY 

THE TOWER 

OXFORD 

DOVER 

CALAIS 

OBELISK OF LUXOR 

PERE LA CHAISE 

RETURN OF THE ASHES OF NAPOLEON 

TOMB OF JOSEPHINE 

THE PRESENTATION 

ADIEU TO FRANCE 

OPENING OF PARLIAMENT BY VICTORIA . 
MRS. FRY AT NEWGATE PRISON . 

HAMPTON COURT ; 

MARCH, AT DENMARK HILL 

HAMPSTEAD 

WESTMINSTER HALL 

RUNNIMEDE 

CLIFTON 

ICEBERGS 

SIGHT OF NATIVE LAND 

RETROSPECTION 



PLEASANT MEMORIES 



OF 



PLEASANT LANDS. 



THE FIRST THREE DAYS AT SEA. 



Out on the Sea ! — out on the broad blue waters ! 
How the surges leap and plunge, as they bear us 
along ; — wild horses of the deep, each in haste to cast 
his burden upon another's back, toss his white mane, 
and away. 

In early childhood, it was my favorite dream to look, 
some time or other, on the brave old island where our 
best books came from, and our nicest frocks, — where 
the Plantagenets strode, and the Tudors domineered, 
and the Tower was built, and the Gunpowder-plot 
foiled, — which our fathers called the Mother-Land, 
and took such pains to break loose from. And now, 
here we are, three days' sail toward her green shores. 

Yet, when the time came to leave, and all things 
were ready, gladly would I have retracted. Even now, 
I wonder why I am here, with this great parting-pain 
tugging at my heart-strings like a vampire. Oh ! if I 
had only known before, what I know now, about this 
home-sickness and sea-sickness. 



4 THE FIRST THREE DATS AT SEA. 

Hour after hour I find myself saying, mentally, did 
not my good physician assure me that a voyage would 
cure this incipient bronchitis ? Did not those who love 
me, and are wiser than I, advise me to come ? Am I 
not included in a pleasant party ? — with a lady whom 
I have long admired, her accomplished clerical son, 
whose mind enriches whatever it contemplates, and a 
still younger gentleman, the son of esteemed friends, 
travelling for improvement? Who, unattended by 
their own immediate family, might expect to combine 
more genial elements of protection, classic intercourse, 
or social delight ? 

Nevertheless, I persist in saying, that women who 
must needs take voyages, and visit foreign parts, had 
better do so before the strongest ties of the heart have 
bound them. Let them go as waifs, and all will be 
well enough. But to wait till the thrilling word of 
Mother has been breathed into their soul, and then get 
out of the reach of that melody, — over the " hollow- 
sounding, melancholy main," — that is a mistake. Out 
of the reach of that melody, did I say ? And where 
would that be ? If they took the wings of the morning, 
and fled to the uttermost parts of the sea, even there 
would be that eternal whisper in the heart, of " Moth- 
er I Mother!" 

And this bright morning, the third of August, is my 
daughter's birthday, — the day that first brought me the 
" great mother-love," stronger than death. Sweet 
Mary ! never before has my hand failed to spread for 
thee the pleasant gifts of this consecrated season. And 



THE FIRST THREE DAYS AT SEA. 

the youngest — the little brother at his school — who 
in the intensity of his loving, timid nature, could not 
lift his large violet eyes through their dewy fringes, 
when I bade him farewell ! 

Fade, visions, fade ! Hence, memories that shake 
me like a reed. Soul ! look abroad upon the mighty 
ocean, and up to the glorious sky where God reigneth. 
Trust in Him, and be content. 

Three days at Sea ! I little thought 

'T would be so hard to say 
Farewell to home and cherished ones, 

And boldly launch away ; 
For from my childhood I had longed 

Through classic climes to rove, 
"Where yellow Tiber proudly rolls, 

Or Sappho sang of love, 
Or where o'er Snowden's forehead gushed 

The Cambrian harp, — but tears 
That round my hearth-stone rained that morn, 

Made dim the hope of years. 

Three days ! As long as he of old, 

The recreant prophet, staid 
In living casket, strangely sealed 

Amid the sea-weed's shade ; 
He who from crime-stained Nineveh 

"Withheld the warning cry, 
And in a ship of Tarshish dreamed 

To 'scape the all-seeing Eye ; 



THE FIRST THREE DATS AT SEA. 

And then, beside his smitten gourd, 
Spake out with murmuring breath, 

To vindicate his bitter right 
Of anger unto death. 



" On the third day He rose ! " Who 

My spirit's strength and stay ; 
Unto whose blessed skirts I '11 cling 

Till life is rent away. 
It matters not, though death draw nigh 

In curtained chamber fair, 
Or on the deep, 'mid wrecking blasts, 

If He be with us there. 
Oh ! may my ransomed soul at last, 

Time's storm-tried voyage o'er, 
Sit down, like Mary, at His feet, 

And listen evermore. 



rose i 



THE VISITANT. 



A visitant ! Who could have expected such an 
event ? From calls we supposed ourselves plainly- 
excused, and had not instructed a single billow to say, 
" Not at home." 

No sail breaks the smooth line of the horizon. No 
pilot-boat rides the wave. Yet here, indeed, comes a 
guest. His feet rest among the shrouds. A lone, del- 
icate land-bird! 

Long and weary was the way he must have come to 
pay us his respects. Five hundred miles would scarce- 
ly bring us to the nearest point of Newfoundland, our 
next land-neighbor ; and, from the home-shore which 
last we saw, we are nearly thrice that distance. 

If the welcome of a guest bears any proportion to 
the pains he takes, or the space he traverses to reach 
us, yon panting traveller should be kindly made at 
home. A bright little English girl ran with a nice 
cage, begging it might be installed therein as her pro- 
tege ! This was probably her view of presenting the 
freedom of the city in a gold box. 

Similar messengers came forth, some two centuries 
since, to greet our exploring ancestors, as they drew 



8 THE VISITANT. 

near this terra-incognita. Seventy days had the storm- 
tossed bark which bore Governor Winthrop and his 
people, ploughed the wave. As the misty line of the 
harbor of Salem gleamed on their view, " behold," said 
he, " there came forth to us, into our ship, a wild 
pigeon and another small bird, likewise a smell from 
the shore, like unto that of a garden." 

Blessed land-breeze ! and blessed heralds ! The 
long-prisoned and not over-fed children crumbled their 
stale bread for those winged visitants. They clapped 
their little hands at the irised hues of the pigeon's 
glossy neck, as it turned its head from side to side, 
timidly regarding them. 

But our winged herald partook of no banquet, nor 
accepted the hospitality of the proffered mansion. He 
was not even like the guest who tarrieth but a night. 
His business was to die. His wearied wing was ex- 
hausted — his head drooped, — he fell to rise no more. 
Like the Dove that surmounted the Deluge, he reached 
the Ark, but for him there was no Ararat. 

The circumstance was not without its sadness. The 
monotony of our voyage had been varied by the advent 
of the little trembler, and its death was not a matter of 
indifference. 



Bird of the land ! what dost thou here ? 

Lone wanderer o'er a trackless bound, 
With nought but frowning skies above, 

And wild, unfathomed seas around. 



THE VISITANT. 

Amid the shrouds, with panting breast 
And drooping head, I see thee stand, 

While pleased the hardy sailor climbs 
To clasp thee in his roughened hand. 

Say, didst thou follow, league on league, 
Our pointed mast, thine only guide, 

When but a floating speck it seemed 
On the broad bosom of the tide ? 

Amid Newfoundland's misty bank 

Hadst thou a nest, and nurslings fair ? 

Or cam'st thou from New-England's vales ? 
Speak ! speak ! what tidings dost thou bear ? 

What news from native land and home ? 

Press'd closely to thy panting side, 
Hast thou some folded scroll of love, 

Light courier o'er the dangerous tide ? 

A bird of genius art thou ? say ! 

With impulse high thy spirit stirred, 
Some region unexplored to gain, 

And soar above the common herd ? 

Burns in thy breast some kindling spark, 
Like that which fired the glowing mind 

Of the adventurous Genoese, 
An undiscovered world to find ? 



10 THE VISITANT. 

Whate'er thou art, how sad thy fate ; 

With wasted strength the goal to spy, 
Cling feebly to the flapping sail, 

And at a stranger's feet to die. 

For thee the widowed mate shall gaze 
From leafy chamber curtained fair ; 

And, wailing lays at evening's close, 
Lament thy loss in deep despair. 

Even thus, o'er life's unresting tide, 
Chilled by the billow's beating spray, 

Some adventitious prize to gain, 
Ambition's votaries urge their way ; 

Some eyrie on the Alpine cliff, 

Some proud Mont-Blanc they fain would climb, 
Snatch wreaths of laurel steeped in gore, 

Or win from Fame a strain sublime ; 

They lose of home the heartfelt joys, 
The charm of seasons as they roll, 

And stake, amid their blinding course, 
The priceless birthright of the soul : 

Years fleet, and still they struggle on, 
Their dim eye rolls with fading fire, 

Perchance the long-sought treasure grasp, 
Taste the brief victory, and expire. 



DIVINE WORSHIP ON THE DEEP. 



Our first Sabbath at sea was a troubled one. The 
elements were at variance, and ourselves ill at ease. 
But the next was as glorious as ocean and sky could 
make it. Long, swelling surges rose slowly, as if to 
listen, and then uttered a deep, farewell strain, as they 
yielded to successive terraces of foam. Methought 
they said, as if in grand chorus, " "We praise Thee, 
God, we acknowledge Thee to be the Lord." 

Ocean put forth his great hands and touched the 
sky, as if teaching us where our thoughts should be 
on the day that the Creator hallowed. Forth also, he 
stood as a preacher, fearfully eloquent. Beneath him 
were the dead whom he had ingulfed, sleeping in 
their unlettered tombs. Of them he spake to us, whom 
he still bore upon his bosom. Like the high-priest of 
old, he lifted his censer between the living and the 
dead. 

Yet not to the sermon of the Sea were we restrict- 
ed. Prayers, and sacred instructions were ours, in 
the tuneful utterance of man. The solemn supplica- 



12 DIVINE WORSHIP ON THE DEEP. 

tions of the Litany, and especially the petition " That 
it may please Thee to preserve all who travel by land 
or by water," seemed to awaken a feeling response. 

Our officiating clergyman was the Rev. John Wil- 
liams, now Assistant Bishop of Connecticut, and his 
audience drawn from various nations and grades of soci- 
ety. Invalids, and those temporarily sick, were brought 
to the deck upon beds and sofas. All the sailors who 
could be spared from necessary duty, were present in 
their neatest costume, our captain always lending his 
influence to the services of religion. 

A few of the passengers, who had trained themselves 
into a choir, at evening prayers in the cabin, lent us 
their choicest melodies. And there, on the open deck 
of that rushing vessel, thousands of miles from those 
dear ones, who had that morning, by " holy bell been 
knolled to church," we were with them in spirit before 
one common Father. 

At the close of the services, a scientific singer poured 
forth, at our request, that sublime anthem : " I know 
that my Redeemer liveth." Glorious words ! which, 
whoever can utter from the heart, it shall be well with 
him, whether in life, or in death. 



While peaceful o'er the placid deep, as waked the Sab- 
bath-day, 

With favoring breeze and swelling sails, a ship pursued 
her way, 



DIVINE WORSHIP ON THE DEEP. 13 

A gush of music strangely sweet came from her lonely 

breast, 
A holy voice of hymns that lull'd the wearied waves to 

rest. 

For there, upon that open deck, was held a solemn 

rite, 
The worship of old Ocean's king, the Lord of power 

and might, 
Who with a simple line of sand doth curb its tyrant 

tide, 
And by his " Hitherto" enchain and quell its fiercest 

pride. 

The earnest tones of humble prayer each listening spirit 

stir, 
And by the fair young babe knelt down the bronzed 

mariner ; 
On couch and mattress, rang'd around, the sick forgot 

their grief, 
And drank the healing lore of heaven, as dew the 

thirsty leaf. 

The thoughtful people of the Rhine, with Erin's off- 
spring came, 

And in our Saxon speech invoked the One Great 
Father's name ; 

And little children gathered near, blest in their guile- 
less thought, 

Hands folded close and lips apart, with sweet devotion 
fraught. 



14 DIVINE WORSHIP ON THE DEEP. 

Uplifted with the inspiring scene, the priestly heart 

grew bold 
To speak with eloquence of Him, who the Great Deep 

controlled ; 
And loftier seem'd his youthful brow, and more sublime 

his voice, 
To warn the sinner to repent, and bid the saint rejoice. 

A secret spell was on the heart that bowed the proud- 
est head ; 

Above us, the eternal skies, — beneath, the mouldering 
dead ; 

The dead, who know no burial rite, save storm or bat- 
tle-cry, 

Close sepulchered in coral cells where dull sea-monsters 
lie. 

A blessed privilege it is, in God's own courts to 
stand, 

And hear the pealing organ swell and join the prayer- 
ful band ; 

Yet deeper doth the wanderer feel that One alone can 
save, 

"Whose fleeting life hath floated forth like sea-weed o'er 
the wave. 

A blessed privilege it is to heed the Sabbath 

chime, 
And forth 'neath summer-foliage walk to keep the holy 

time ; 



DIVINE WORSHIP ON THE DEEP. 15 

Yet who hath all devoutly praised the Friend his breath 

that kept, 
Until the unpitying mountain-surge roam'd round him 

while he slept ? 

Earth, the indulgent mother-nurse, with love her son 

doth guide, 
His safety, on her quiet breast, begets an inborn pride ; 
But Ocean, like a king austere, doth mock his trusting 

gaze, 
And test the fabric of the faith, by which on Heaven 

he stays. 

Hark ! hark ! again a tuneful sound floats o'er the 
watery plain, — 

How passing sweet are Zion's songs amid the stranger- 
main ; 

We taught their praise to echoing winds along our 
venturous way, 

And to the billows as they toss'd in their tremendous 
play. 

" I know that my Redeemer lives ! " O Soul ! how 

great thy bliss, 
If in thine inmost casket dwells a gem so pure as 

this. 
Be patient 'neath the darkest cloud, be glad whate'er 

betide ; 
" Ihww that my Redeemer lives" — what needs't thou 

know beside ? 



16 DIVINE WORSHIP ON THE DEEP. 

Throughout yon wide and lone expanse no living thing 

is seen, 
Save that the stormy petrel's wing doth fleck the blue 

serene ; 
But ministries of angel-thought, and hopes that blossom 

free, 
And tender memories, cluster round this Sabbath on the 

Sea. 



THE GERANIUM PLANT. 



Hold up thy head, thou timid voyager ! 

Vex'd by the storm-clouds as they darkly roll, 
And by the fiercely tossing waves that stir 

Thy slender root, and try thy gentle soul, — 
Sad change from thy sweet garden, where the dew 

Each morning glistened in thy grateful eye, 
And where the roughest guest thy bosom knew 

Were busy bee or gadding butterfly : 
It grieves me sore to see thy beauties fade, 

Wearing the plague-spot of the sickening spray, 
And know what trouble I for thee have made ; 

Yet still bear on, meek partner of my way, 
For in thy life I hold the flowery chain 
Of home and its delights, — here, on the lonely main. 

Poor little companion ! tossed up and down, till thou 
art almost shaken out of thy scanty vase of earth, how 
sorry I am for thee. True sympathies there are be- 
tween us, in this matter of pining heartache. I fear 
thou wilt be a martyr to the constancy with which thou 
hast followed me. Thou dost not like this never-rest- 
2 



18 THE ANNIVERSARY. 

ing sea. No. And thou meanest to die and leave 
me. I see that. 

From thy quiet bed, in my own garden, amid many 
fair sisters, thou wert drawn forth by my little daugh- 
ter, when I was about to leave, with the kind and 
thoughtful words, that "something green might look 
pleasant to me at sea." And so it did. Right pleas- 
ant hast thou been unto me, and sociable, — yea, elo- 
quent. I little imagined the depth of communion there 
would be between us. For the home-spirit was in 
thine heart. 

Sometimes, when night closed in heavily, with those 
deep sighs of the wind that betoken a coming storm, 
and the leaping ship seemed fain to seek a loophole to 
escape, or a depth to hide in, I have drawn closer unto 
thee, as if thou couldst comfort me. Or, at waking 
from such slumbers as the hoarse lullaby of the surge 
induces, and raising my head from the coffin-like berth, 
my eyes fell first upon thee, and I spake softly to thee 
as to a child. But I have marked thy delicate leaves 
grow sad, and fall away. Day by day I have num- 
bered them, and mourned each faded one as a friend. 
Now, only a few remain, folding themselves around 
thy graceful bosom. My poor rose-geranium ! 

Thirteen days and nights had we been upon the 
deep, when awaking at the gray hour of dawn, I re- 
membered it was the first anniversary of the death of 
my beloved father, and beckoned the solemn imagery 
of that scene to meet me over the waves. Like a liv- 
ing picture, every lineament gleamed forth ; his ven- 



THE ENGLISH FAMILY. 19 

erable head, resting upon its white pillow ; the bright- 
ness of his beautiful hair, on which fourscore and seven 
winters had scattered no snows ; his heavy breathing, 
mingled with the gentle dropping of the summer-show- 
er upon the vine-leaves at his casement, and the meas- 
ured tick of the clock, through that lonely night, while 
bending over him, I hoped against hope, that the sud- 
den illness might not be mortal, and that the form, 
which but the day before had moved with so vigorous 
a step, would yet rise up, and lean upon its staff, and 
come forth to bless me. The rain ceased, a circle of 
faint brightness foretold the rising of the sun ; those 
precious lips uttered again the sound of kind words, — 
the opening eyes told their message of saintly love, the 
lids fluttered and closed. There was no more breath. 

Hark ! — a wail dispels this reverie of the heart. 
Another, and another — piercing and prolonged, be- 
yond even that with which an only child mourns the 
last parent. It must be the wail of a mother. No 
other sorrow hath such a voice. Yet so abruptly it 
burst forth, amid deep and silent meditation, that for a 
moment memory was bewildered, and the things which 
had been, mingled their confused tissue with things 
that are. 

Among our passengers, was a dignified and accom- 
plished lady, returning with her husband, an officer, 
from a residence of several years in Canada, to Eng- 
land, their native land. They had with them three 
little daughters, and in the course of those conversa- 
tions which beguile the tedium of sea-life, she had 



20 THE MOURNING MOTHER. 

sometimes spoken of the anxiety with which her aged 
mother waited to welcome those descendants, born in 
a foreign clime, whom of course she had never seen ; 
and so exquisite was their beauty, that it would not 
have been surprising, had a thrill of pride heightened 
the pleasure with which she painted the joy of such a 
meeting. The youngest was a babe of less than a 
year, and we, who often shared its playful wile, fan- 
cied that it had grown languid as if from some inhe- 
rent disease. Yet its large black eyes still beamed 
with strange lustre, so that neither the parents nor nurse 
would allow that aught affected it, save what arose 
from the change of habits, incidental to the confine- 
ment of the ship. Yet, that night, the mother more 
uneasy than she was willing to allow, decided not to 
leave its cradle. In the saloon adjoining our state- 
room she took her place, and when we retired, the fair 
infant lay in troubled sleep. Yet even then the spoiler 
was nearer to it than that watchful mother, and ere the 
morning, he smote it in her arms. We found her 
clasping it closely to her bosom, as if fain to revivify it 
with her breath. Masses of glossy black hair, escaping 
from their confinement, fell over her shoulders, and 
drooped as a curtain over the marble features of the 
dead. Mingled with gasps of grief, that shook her like 
a reed, were exclamations of hope, — that hope, which 
clings and cleaves to the wounded heart, binding its 
fibres, wherever the blood-drop oozes, and striving like 
a pitying angel, to staunch where it may not heal. 
" Constance, Constance ! look at me ! Oh, my dear 



THE PLANT'S LAST OFFICE. 21 

husband, she will live again. She has been sicker than 
this once, when you were away. Yes, yes, she will 
breathe again." Long she continued, thus assuaging 
her bitter sorrow, with this vanity of trust, and then 
we tenderly strove to loosen her convulsive grasp from 
the lifeless idol. After we had prevailed, and it was 
borne from her sight, we still heard, in the pauses of 
the soothing voice with which her husband sought to 
console her, the wild cry, " She will breathe again ! I 
saw her sweet lips move, as they took her from me ! 
My baby will live again ! " 

It was laid out on our sofa in the ladies' cabin, in a 
pure white robe, its brow surpassingly beautiful, and 
the deeply fringed lids but imperfectly closed over its 
large lustrous eyes. The black lace veil of the mother 
shaded its form and features, and through it was clearly 
visible the last green slip of my rose-geranium. It was 
my gift to the dead, and pressed into that little pulseless 
hand, not without a tear. This was the last office of 
that cherished plant, which had left its own home, in 
the quiet gardens of New-England, to do this service 
for faded innocence,'and itself to die. Happy shall we 
be, if in the closing of our frail life, we, like this trem- 
bling voyager, leave behind a gleam of light and con- 
solation, as the olive-leaf above the flood, or the dove 
whose last act was peace, ere it entered rejoicing into 
the ark, to be a wanderer no more. 



APPROACH TO ENGLAND. 



Land ! Land ! — The sailor hears no sweeter sound ! 
And the tired voyager leaps up, to catch 
Through lifted glass yon misty line, that marks 
On the horizon's edge his destined goal. 

Warm-hearted Erin, to the utmost verge 

Of old Kinsale, dipping her snowy foot 

In the cold surge, came forth, and held a light, 

And breathed good wishes on our venturous way. 

But then we lost her, and went groping on, 

Day after day, fog-wrapt and full of fear, 

O'er the vexed Channel, the resounding lead 

Probing its depths, and he who ruled our bark 

Sleepless, and marked with care for those who gave 

Both life and fortune to his faithful charge. 

Would that I loved thee, Ocean ! 

I had heard 
Much of thy praise, in story and in song, 
And oft by fancy lured, was half prepared 
To worship thee. But 't is a weary life 
To be a child of thine. Thou hast a smile 



APPROACH TO ENGLAND. 2 

Of witching sweetness, yet thy moods are strange, 
And thy caprices terrible. 

Of these 
I was forewarned, however, and complain 
Less of thy frowns, than thine indulgences. 
Thine everlasting rocking makes the soul 
Peevish and sick, like an o'er cradled child ; 
And thy protracted calmness lulls the mind 
To dreamy idleness, stealing away 
That industry in which is half our bliss. 
Things from their nature and their proper use 
Thou seem'st to turn. The book we fain would read 
Leaps from our hand, or cheats the swimming sight. 
The needle pricks our fingers, and the pen 
Makes zigzag lines. If still we persevere 
Against thy will, grasping with desperate zeal 
Both pen and table, as the Jews of old 
With one hand wrought upon their wall, and held 
Their weapons with the other, down amain 
By some unlucky lurch the inkstand comes, 
Deluging things most precious. Last resort 
Is conversation, and with quickened zeal 
We turn to that, reduced again to say 
The hundredth time, what we had said before. 
Yet, if perchance some witticism, or tale, 
Well hoarded up, we bring exulting forth, 
No smile repays our toil, the listener yawns, 
For thou dost dim perception, and enwrap 
Attention in a trance, and memory drive 
To the four winds. 



24 APPROACH TO ENGLAND. 

Here sit a pair at chess, 
Absorbed, of course, and there another group, 
Who scarcely keep a show of life, to drag 
Some other drowsy game. Still wiser those, 
Who to the dull necessity of things 
Yielding perforce, on sofa, or on chair, 
Dose oyster-like. 

I would not wish to be 
Fastidious, or too difficult to please ; 
Yet I 've a fondness now and then to tread 
On something firm, and not be always dashed 
Against the wall when walking, nor in sleep 
Tossed from the pillow to the state-room floor, 
Aghast and ill at ease. 

Yet these are freaks 
Doubtless unworthy to be kept in mind ; 
And we have much to thank thee for, Deep ! 
And would not be ungrateful. Thou hast shown 
Thy summer face, and poured thy bracing air 
Salubrious round us, and called freely forth 
Thy various actors on their tossing stage ; 
The kingly whale, the porpoise in huge shoals 
Disporting heavily, the rough sea-horse 
Churning the foam, like ponderous elephant, 
The dolphin, fainting in his rainbow shroud, 
The white gull, sailing through the blue serene, 
And the faint land-bird, as it quivering hung 
Mid our wet shrouds, to die. 

And when I 've bowed 
My soul to thee, thou hast not failed to breathe 



APPROACH TO ENGLAND. 25 

A glorious thought therein, pointing to Him 

"Who counts thy thunder as an infant's sigh. 

And when thy mountain-waves, with solemn night 

Upon their crests, went rushing on, to do 

The secret bidding of the Invisible, 

Oft hath their terrible beauty waked a thrill 

Of rapturous awe, as if a spirit spake 

From their dark depths of God. 

And thou didst spare 
Our trembling vessel 'mid the breakers hoarse, 
What time, by urgent winds propelled, she went 
Down toward unpitying Bardsey's frightful reef. 

"What did I say ? Thou spar'dst us ! 

No. His hand 
Who heareth prayer sustained us, as we ran 
O'er wreck-paved Cardigan such fearful course, 
As turned the proudest pale. 

And so, farewell ! 
I give thee thanks, but most of all rejoice 
At our leave-taking. 

Lo ! the pilot boat 
Speeds like a dancing feather o'er the surge, 
And the dim outline of the shore grows green, 
Lifting its spires and turrets to the cloud. 

England, Mother-Land ! how oft my heart 
In its young musings, hath gone out to thee 
With filial love. For thou didst tell me tales 
Of ancient times, and of the steel-clad knights, 



26 APPROACH TO ENGLAND. 

Who battled for the truth, and of the lays 
Of wandering minstrels, harping in thy halls, 
Until I longed to see her face, whose voice 
Could charm me so, even as the simple child, 
Going to rest, asks for its mother's kiss. 

Therefore have I come forth upon the wave, — 

I, whose most dear and unambitious joy 

Was, 'neath the low porch of my vine-clad home, 

To twine, at early morn, such tender shoots 

As the cool night put forth, or listening catch 

The merry voices of my little ones 

Lifting the blossoms from their turfy bed, — 

I have come strangely forth upon the wave, 

To take thee by the hand, before I die. 

Show me the birthplace of those bards of old, 

Whose music moved me, as a mighty wind 

Doth bow the reed. Show me their marble tombs, 

Whose varied wisdom taught the awe-struck world, - 

Those giants of old time. Show me thy domes 

And castellated towers, with ivy crowned, 

The proud memorials of a buried race ; 

Pour on my ear thy rich Cathedral hymn, 

England, our mother, and to my far home 

In the green West I will rejoicing turn, 

Wearing thine image on my grateful heart. 



VARIETIES OF OCEAN. 27 

Our voyage across the Atlantic had been eminently 
prosperous. From our departure from New York, 
August 1, 1840, we encountered no obstruction dur- 
ing the seventeen days that brought us to the Irish 
coast. Our good ship, the Europe, Captain Edward 
G. Marshall, surmounted the waves buoyantly, and 
often seemed to skim their surface, like a joyous bird. 
We almost imagined her to be conscious of the happi- 
ness she imparted, as, seated on the deck, in the glori- 
ous summer moonlight, we saw her sweeping through 
the crested billows, with a pleasant, rushing sound, 
right onward in the way she ought to go. 

Methought, also, the deep bestirred itself, to exhibit 
its dramatis persona} in good condition for our amuse- 
ment. Immense families of porpoises rolled and gam- 
bolled ; other huge creatures, seeming to have hideous 
ears, leaped and plunged heavily ; and a whale, with 
her cub, glided onward, her huge mass inflated with a 
mother's pride and pleasure, as she led her promising 
monster to his ocean-play. The sun came forth from 
his chambers and returned again in glorious majesty, 
and the evening phosphorescence, contrasted with the 
fleecy crest and the purple base of the waves, was in- 
tensely beautiful. 

Thus were we cheated along our watery way, — and 
by making the most of the scenery without, and the 
resources within, experienced as little ennui as could 
be expected, and indulged in no anticipation of evil. 
But that terror of mariners awaited us in St. George's 
Channel, — a dense fog, upon an iron-bound coast. We 



28 fog in st. George's channel. 

had joyfully seen the light in the head of old Kinsale ; 
afterwards the harbor of Cork, and the mountains of 
Dungannon revealed themselves, and were lost. Then, 
wrapped in a thick curtain, we went on fearfully, with 
continued soundings. A chill rain occasionally fell, — 
and the winds moaned and cried among the shrouds, 
like living creatures. The faithful and attentive cap- 
tain, oppressed with a sense of his responsibility, scarcely 
took refreshment or repose. At. midnight, on the 19th, 
we heard his voice cheerfully announcing that a bright 
light from Tuscar Rock was visible, that our course 
was right, and that all might retire to rest, free from 
anxiety. 

As morning dawned, I lay waking, and listening to 
sounds that seemed near my ear and even upon my 
pillow. They were like water forcing its way among 
obstructions, or sometimes as if it were poured hissing 
upon heated stones. At length I spoke to the friend 
who shared my state-room, of a suppressed voice of 
eddies and whirlpools, like what is often heard in pass- 
ing Hurl-Gate, when the tide is low. She thought me 
imaginative; but on hearing that I had long been rea- 
soning with myself, and yet the sounds remained, 
threw on her dressing-gown and ascended to the deck. 
The fog was still heavy, and all things appeared as 
usual. Soon the carpenter, being sent aloft to make 
some repairs, shouted, in a terrible voice, " breakers ! 
breakers ! " The mist lifted its curtain a little, and 
lo ! a rock, sixty feet in height, against which 
the sea was breaking with tremendous violence, and 



bardsey's reef. 29 

towards which we were propelled by wind and tide. 
At the first appaling glance, it would seem that we 
were scarcely a ship's length from it. In the agony of 
the moment, the captain, clasping his hands, exclaimed 
that all was lost. Still, under this weight of anguish, 
more for others than himself, he was enabled to give 
the most minute orders with entire presence of mind. 
They were promptly obeyed ; the ship, as if instinct 
with intelligence, answered her helm, and sweeping rap- 
idly around, escaped the jaws of destruction. Still we 
were long in troubled waters, and it was not for many 
hours, and until we had entirely passed Holyhead, that 
the captain took his eye from the glass, or quitted his 
post of observation. It would seem that, after he had 
retired to rest the previous night, the ship must have 
been imperfectly steered, and aided by the strong drift- 
ing of the tides in that region, was led out of her course 
towards Cardigan Bay, thus encountering the reef 
which is laid down on the charts as Bardsey's Isle. 

The passengers, during this period of peril, were 
generally quiet, and offered no obstruction, through 
their own alarms, to the necessary evolutions on deck. 
One from the steerage, an Irishman, who had been 
thought, but a few days before, in the last stages of 
pulmonary disease, was seen, in the excitement of the 
moment, laboring among the ropes and blocks, as if in 
full health and vigor. It was fearful to see him, with 
a face of such mortal paleness, springing away from 
death in one form, to meet and resist him in another. 

Every circumstance and personage connected with 



30 EFFECTS OF FEAR. 

that scene of danger, seem to adhere indelibly to recol- 
lection. A young girl came and sat down on the cabin 
floor, and said, in a low, tremulous tone, " I have loved 
my Saviour, but have not been faithful to Him as I 
ought ; " and in that posture of humility awaited His 
will. 

A mother, who since coming on board had taken the 
I entire charge of an infant not a year old, retired with 
it in her arms to a sofa, when the expectation of death 
was the strongest upon us all. Her eyes were silently 
rivetted upon the nursling, with whom she might so 
soon go down beneath the deep waters. He returned 
that gaze with an almost equal intensity, and there 
they sat, uttering no sound, scarcely breathing, and 
pale as a group of sculptured marble. 

In that strange communion was the mother impart- 
ing to her nursling her own speechless weight of ago- 
ny, at parting with other beloved objects in their dis- 
tant home ? Or did the tender soul take upon itself a 
burden, which pressed from it a sudden ripeness of 
sympathy ? Or was the intensity of prayer drawing 
the spirit of the child into that of the mother, until 
they were as one before God ? 

Strong lessons were learned at an hour like this. 
Ages of thought were compressed into a moment. The 
reach of an unbodied spirit, or some glimpse of the 
power, by which the deeds and motives of a whole life 
may be brought into view, at the scrutiny of the last 
judgment, seemed to reveal itself. Methought the af- 
fections, that so imperatively bind to earth, loosened 



GRATITUDE FOR DELIVERANCE. 31 

their links in that very extremity of peril ; and a 
strange courage sprang up, and the soul, driven to one, 
lone trust, took hold of the pierced hand of the Ee- 
deemer, and found it strong to save. 

That night the prayer and sacred music, which reg- 
ularly hallowed our hour of retirement, should have 
been more deeply surcharged with devout gratitude 
than ever ; snatched as we had been from the devour- 
ing flood, and from " the evil time, that snareth the 
sons of men, when it falleth suddenly upon them." 



LIVERPOOL. 



Liverpool has the advantage of position as the 
giver of welcome to so many voyagers to a place of rest. 
Standing as she does, on a sort of isthmus between the 
Old and New World, her greeting hand is cordially 
grasped, and the first glimpse of her dark, green robes, 
warmly hailed. 

In sailing up the Mersey, we were particularly 
struck by the deep shade of the verdure that surround- 
ed us. To our American eyes, it seemed to have a 
tint of indigo. The tides in this river rise rapidly, and 
to the height of twenty feet. Hence, for the protection 
of commerce, has arisen the necessity of those Docks, 
whose magnitude astonishes every stranger. 

Apart from these, the city, though not strikingly 
beautiful, possesses many objects of interest. Among 
these, are the New Cemetery, where we would fain 
have lingered much longer, had our bespoken time 
allowed. Our attentive captain, who accompanied us 
to the Custom-House, facilitating our business there, by 
his superior knowledge, was anxious that we should 
also visit the Bazaar and the Town-Hall. The latter 
has a grand staircase and a fine prospect from its 



LIVERPOOL. 3o 

dome. Some of its apartments are adorned with por- 
traits by Sir Thomas Lawrence, of members of the 
royal family. 

Opposite the Exchange, we were shown the cele- 
brated bronze statue of Nelson. He is depicted in the 
death-struggle, — Fame and Victory holding over his 
head several crowns. The pedestal is surrounded by 
a group of colossal figures in chains, representing the 
various nations which he had either subjugated, or com- 
pelled to acknowledge the supremacy of Great Britain. 

Among the illustrious dead, we turned, with admir- 
ing recollections, to Roscoe, who ennobled both the 
mercantile profession, and his native city, by elegant 
literature. It gave us pleasure to be introduced to 
some of his descendants, whose intellectual tastes and 
amiable feelings betokened affinity to the author of Leo 
Tenth, and Lorenzo de Medici. 

By Mr. Gair, formerly from Boston, who, with his 
lady, showed us great politeness and hospitality, we 
were taken to attend divine worship in the chapel of the 
Blue Coat Hospital. Two hundred and fifty boys, and 
one hundred girls, were assembled there, in the neat 
uniforms of the Institution. To our surprise, the whole 
service was performed by them. A boy of very grave 
deportment read the liturgy with solemn intonation, 
and the others distinctly responded. Another officiated 
as organist, and all joined zealously in the singing. 
Catechisms and portions of Scripture were recited by a 
selection of the scholars, and the exercises conducted 
and closed decorously. 
3 



34 SERVICE IN THE CHURCH OF THE BLIND. 

The building appropriated to the Institution is spa- 
cious, and perfectly neat. In one apartment are por- 
traits of its benefactors, among whom are some who 
were once pensioners of its bounty. The advantages 
for an extended education are not so great here as in 
the establishment for the Blue Coat Boys in London, 
which has produced some literary men of note. The 
Liverpool beneficiaries are prepared for the practical 
walks of life, and become apprentices to artisans or 
tradesmen. Before leaving, we were invited to see the 
children taking their Sunday supper. Each had on a 
wooden plate a huge mass of bread, with a modicum of 
cheese, and by its side a small cup of ale ; all of which 
elements they were discussing with a visible relish. 
Their appearance was healthful, and their deportment 
quiet, and in perfect subordination. How blessed is that 
benevolence, which rescues the young from ignorance 
and poverty, and inspires them with motives to become 
useful here, and happy hereafter. It is peculiarly hon- 
orable, in a commercial city, to devote time and atten- 
tion to these departments of philanthropy. 

Another high gratification awaited our first Sabbath 
in England, which was really the first day spent on her 
shores, — our arrival having been on the afternoon of 
Saturday. This gratification, never to be forgotten, 
was the service in the Church of the Blind. The music 
of these sightless worshippers surpasses description. 
They chant as in the cathedral service, accompanied 
by the organ, and sing anthems and other compositions 
with a soul-thrilling sweetness. Of course, all these 



DIVINE SERVICE. 35 

performances are acts of memory, which is doubtless 
rendered more retentive by the concentrativeness of 
thought that blindness promotes. The noble asylum 
for these sightless worshippers is well patronized. 
Their church is adorned with two large paintings, and 
a transparency ; and was filled by a respectable audi- 
ence. The seats for the objects of the Institution are 
in the gallery. Sweet and heaven-born is that Charity 
which, if she may not, like her Master, open the blind 
eye to the works of nature, pours upon the afflicted 
mind the light of knowledge, and lifts up the soul to 
the " clear shining of the Sun of Righteousness." 



One day, the ocean's might to dare, 
While the lone ship with rushing prow 

Adventurous cuts her doubtful way, 
With clouds above and waves below, 

One day, the booming surge to hear, 
Mid wrecking winds' impetuous roar, 

And press the next with speechless joy 
Our mother Albion's verdant shore, 

To list her Sabbath's sacred chime, 
To kneel amid her kneeling train, 

Seems like the pageant of a dream 
That weaves its mockery round the brain. 



36 DIVINE SERVICE. 

Yet thus it is. And here we stand 

Within that consecrated dome, 
Which true benevolence hath reared 

To yield the sightless poor a home. 

Yet, thus it is. How passing sweet, 
Ye stricken blind, your chanted lays, 

Those breathings of a chastened soul, 
That turns its discipline to praise. 

Yet think not, though in heart you mourn 
The shrouded charms of hill and plain, 

That all your lot withholds is loss, 
Or all our boasted pleasures, gain. 

Ye miss the sight of wan decay, 
The wrinkle on the brow so dear, 

The sunny ringlet changed to gray, 
The flush of youth to sorrow's tear, 

Ye miss the cold averted eye, 

The scowl of passion's fierce control, 

The leer of pride, the frown of hate, 

The glance of scorn that stings the soul, 

Ye miss the fading of the rose, 

The lily drooping on its stalk, 
The frosty blight, that autumn throws 

O'er vine-wreathed bower and summer walk. 



DIVINE SERVICE. 37 

We see indeed the form, the smile, 

The lip that gives affection's kiss ; 
Yet thoughtless oft, or thankless grow, 

Even from the fullness of our bliss. 

We roam amid creation's wealth, 

Vale, grove, and stream and flower-decked plain, 
Yet heedless of their Maker's voice, 

Become desultory and vain. 

But musing contemplation seeks 

Well pleased, your bosom's inmost cell, 

And Memory lauds the thoughtful train, 
Who guard her precious gold so well. 

Then be not sad ; for Knowledge holds 
High converse with the hermit-mind, 

And tenderest Sympathy is yours, 

And heaven-born Music loves the blind. 

She loves and claims you for her own, 

And strives melodiously to pay, 
With rapturous thrill and dulcet tone, 

For what stern Nature takes away. 

S ay, hath there not been partial praise 
Dealt to that orb, whose skill refined 

Collects the tints of earth and sky, 

And paints their picture for the mind ? 



38 DIVINE SERVICE. 

While the reporter of the soul, 

That patient friend since life was young, 

That links reverberated sound, 
Still toils unhonored and unsung ? 

The eye, with all its mystic lore, 

Its sparkling glance, its varying dye, 

From lover's lute and minstrel's strain 
Hath drunk of old high eulogy ; 

While in its clustering thicket hid, 
The ear unchronicled remained, 

Yet ever with the ruling mind 

Close league and covenant maintained. 

For what were eloquence, shouldst thou, 
Harp of the soul, thine aid deny ? 

And how would love's soft errand speed, 
Shouldst thou forget his whispered sigh ? 

And how must high devotion droop, 
If all his glorious themes should be 

Lost in thy labyrinthine maze, 
Or misinterpreted by thee ? 

Oh peaceful blind ! the wheels of life, 

That with their dust-clouds dim the soul, 

Ye see not their revolving strife, 
But catch their music as they roll ; 



DIVINE SERVICE. 39 

Ye see not how the scythe of time 

Cuts the young blossom ere it springs, 

Yet may you trace with skill sublime 

The heavenward movement of his wings. 



Chant on ! chant on ! ye sightless choir 
Still bow the heart to music's sway, 

And fill the stranger's eye with tears, 
As ye have done for us this day. 



CHESTER. 



Queer, quaint, old Chester, — I had heard of thee 
From one, who in his boyhood knew thee well, 

And therefore did I scan, with earnest eye, 
The castled turret, where he used to dwell, 

And the fair walnut tree, whose branches bent 

Their broad, embracing arms around the battlement. 

His graphic words were like the painter's touch, 
So true to life, that I could scarce persuade 

Myself I had not seen thy face before, 

Or round those ancient walls and ramparts strayed, 

And often, as thy varied haunts I ken'd 

Stretched out my hand to thee, as a familiar friend. 

Grotesque and honest-hearted art thou, sure, 
And so behind this very changeful day, 

So fond of antique fashions, it would seem 
Thou must have slept an age or two away. 

The very streets are galleries, and I trow 

Thy people all were born some hundred years ago. 



CHESTER. 41 

Old Rome was once thy guest, beyond a doubt, 
And many a keepsake to thy hand she gave, 

Trinket, and rusted coin, and lettered stone, 
Ere with her legions she recrossed the wave ; 

And thou dost hoard her gifts with pride and care, 

As erst the Gracchian dame displayed her jewels rare. 

Here, "neath thy dim Cathedral let us pause, 

And list the echo of that sacred chime, 
That, when the heathen darkness fled away, 

Went up at Easter and at Christmas time, 
Chants of His birth, who woke the angel-train, 
And of that bursting tomb, where Death himself was 
slain. 

Ho ! Mercian Abbey, hast thou ne'er a tale 
Of grim Wulpherius, with his warriors dread ? 

Or of the veiled nuns at vigil pale, 

Who owned the rule of Saxon Ethelfled ? 

Did hopeless love in yon dark cloisters sigh ? 

Or in thy dungeon vaults some sentenc'd victim die ? 

And there mid graceful shades is Eaton Hall, 
With princely gate and Gothic front of pride, 

In modern beauty, though perchance we fain 
Might choose with hoar antiquity to bide, 

For she, with muffled brow and legend wild, 

Knows well to charm the ear of Fancy's musing 
child. 



42 CHESTER. 

Baronial splendor decks yon gilded halls, 
And here in niches cold are armed knights, 

And costly paintings on the lofty walls, 
And every charm that luxury delights, 

And ample parks, and velvet lawns, where stray 

The ruminating herd, or the white lambkins play. 

But yet the flowers, that with their thousand eyes 
Look timid up and nurse their infant gem, 

To me are dearer than the gorgeous dome, 
Or fretted arch, that overshadows them. 

Methought their soft lips ask, all bright with dew, 

The welfare of their friends, that in my country grew. 

Yes, in my simple garden, far away 

Beyond the ocean waves, that toss and roll, 

Your gentle kindred drink the healthful ray, 
Heaven's holy voice within their secret soul, 

And the same words they speak, so pure and free, 

Unto my loved ones there, that here ye say to me. 

Chester, on the borders of the principality of Wales, 
exhibits peculiar features to an American eye. Its 
dwellings, with high, pointed roofs, and carved gables 
turned towards the street, throw a projecting story over 
the sidewalks, so that passengers move along as if in 
covered vestibules. This has an odd effect, for at first 
view the people in the streets seem to be in the houses, 
and those who are in the houses, in the streets. It 



CASTLE AND CATHEDRAL. 43 

furnishes the only specimen of ancient fortification, ex- 
tant in England, with the exception of Carlisle. The 
towers by which they were defended, were anciently 
placed at bow-shot distance, that they might afford aid 
to each other, as well as annoy the besieging enemy. 
Its walls are nearly two miles in circumference, and 
afford an agreeable promenade, varied by the windings 
of the River Dee. 

Chester Castle, where a garrison is stationed, was to 
me a structure of absorbing interest, from having often 
heard it minutely described by my husband, who had 
spent some time there in his boyhood, with a relative 
who had married an English officer, — Capt. Edward 
Barron, at that time the commander of the fortress. 
Methought his voice, delineating the scenes and cus- 
toms which had the most strongly impressed his young 
fancy, still mingled with the breeze that sighed around 
its dark time-worn battlements. 

Chester was the first to introduce our party to what 
we had long desired to see, — the Cathedrals of the 
Mother-Land. Her own was less distinguished by 
splendor than most of those grand specimens of eccle- 
siastical architecture. Its length is stated at 350 feet, its 
breadth 76, and the altitude of its tower 127. It was 
erected in the fifteenth century, though its most ancient 
portion, originally an abbey, was founded 1160 years 
since, by Wulpherius, king of Mercia. The Danes 
destroyed it when they took possession of Chester, in 
895 ; but it was afterwards restored, and placed under 
the government of Ethelfleda, daughter of Alfred the 



44 EATON HALL. 

Great. Beneath its low-browed arches we were shown 
the tomb of Henry IV., of Germany, and some Roman 
relics. Among the latter was a stone, with an obscure 
Latin inscription, purporting that one thousand paces 
of the wall were built by the cohort, under Ocratius 
Maximinius. It is well known that the head-quarters 
of the twentieth Roman legion were at Chester, and 
that it is supposed to derive its name from Castram, a 
camp or military station. Many circumstances led me 
to explore, with peculiar interest, this antique and for- 
tified town. 

A ride of four miles beyond it brings you to Eaton 
Hall, the seat of the Marquis of Westminster. Its 
principal gate of entrance is said to have been erected 
at the expense of £10,000 ; and the grounds, which are 
seven miles in extent, are laid out in parks, interspersed 
wuh shrubbery, beautiful flowers, and tasteful por- 
ers' lodges. The mansion, a specimen of the modern 
rr Gothic, is seven hundred feet in length, and exhibits 
an imposing range of towers, pinnacles, and turrets. 
The interior has a costly display of paintings, statuary, 
sculpture, and gilding. The superb library, one hun- 
dred and thirty feet in length, divided into three com- 
partments, was shown us, as were also the dining-room, 
state-chamber, and other richly furnished apartments. 
As it was the first baronial establishment our republi- 
can eyes had ever beheld, we regarded it with atten- 
tion. There was much to admire, especially in the 
high state of cultivation that marked its environs ; yet 
the mind reverted with deeper sympathy to the time- 



RURAL COMFORT. 45 

worn structures we had just quitted, and preferred to 
linger among the shadows of mouldering antiquity. 

During our ride of ten miles from Chester to East- 
ham, where we took passage in a steamer for Liver- 
pool, we had delightful views of the blossomed hedges 
and cottage-homes of England. And as whatever we 
see of surpassing excellence in a foreign country, we 
are naturally desirous of transplanting to our own, we 
could not avoid wishing that our agricultural friends at 
home, who are such models of industry and domestic 
virtue, would be more careful to surround their dwell- 
ings with comfortable and agreeable objects. Were 
they to build on a smaller scale, and spare the expense 
of large rooms, seldom to be used, and never to be 
warmed, for a fruit inclosure, or a walk of shrubbery, 
or a garden with flowers, would it not make their young 
people love home the better, and be happier there ? 
What is lovely to the eye need be no hindrance to the 
" things that are of good report." It may be a help to 
them. If the farmer, instead of making war on all the 
forest-trees, as if they were Amorites and Jebusites, 
whom he had been commanded to exterminate, would 
save some of those majestic columns of the Maker's work- 
manship, and even indulge himself in the pleasure of 
planting others, on the borders of some sunny road, or 
sparkling fountain, he might hear the wearied trav- 
eller bless him. And if, instead of counting it lost time 
to beautify the home where he trains his little ones, he 
would in his leisure moments nurture a vine, or a rose- 
plant for them, and teach them to admire the bud open- 



46 THE SHOWER. 

ing its infant eye, and the tendril reaching forth its 
clasping hands, he would find their characters refining 
under these sweet rural influences, and their hearts 
more ready to appreciate His goodness, who feedeth 
the lily on the moorlands, and maketh the " wilder- 
ness to blossom as the rose." 

On this excursion we had our first specimen of the 
dripping skies of good old England, — 

For as we turned — 
Our visit o'er — and on the public coach 
Chose out the topmost seat, rejoicing much 
At the fair prospect of the white wash'd cots, 
Hedge-guarded and rose-sprinkled, — all at once 
Down came the rain. 

It was an awkward thing 
To meet such drenching streams, all pinioned close, 
And perched on dizzy roof. To get inside, 
With each bespoken cushion densely pack'd, 
Was quite impossible. Nor did it seem 
More feasible, with swaying arm to hold 
The wet umbrellas, and adjust their seams 
Like a torn tent-roof, and our place maintain 
Upon that flying vehicle. 

And so 
Our party, cowering close, with drooping plumes, 
Praised earnestly our own less watery skies, 
Or, silent, mused, as women sometimes will, 
Upon an injured wardrobe. I deplored 
My well-saved cashmere shawl, a very sponge, 



THE SHOWER. 47 

And brilliant ribbons ruin'cl. Glad at heart, 
Ten weary miles achiev'cl, the boat we saw 
Riding beside the pier. 

But every change 
Is not a benefit. The heavy storm 
Drove to that single cabin, small and low, 
More than it well could hold. There was a scene 
Of strange discomfort ; forms that jostled hard 
Against they knew not who, and jutting arms 
Reduced from their sharp angle suddenly ; 
Feet, that their neighbor's rights invaded ; force, 
Used to no purpose, and complaints as vain ; 
And fear of pickpockets, and gasping breath 
That of impure and suffocating air 
Told more than speech could utter. 

There we stood, 
Ready to faint, while on the narrow bench 
That lin'd the wall, sat here and there, a man, 
Porter, or sturdy laborer, with square hands 
And clumsy hobnailed shoes, who gave no place 
To woman's weaker form. But, from a nook, 
Struggling, as best he might, with sparkling eye, 
And beard of richest auburn o'er his breast 
Depending, came a Jewish stranger forth, 
And gave his seat, and press'd it earnestly. 

O son of Abraham ! thou hast better learn'd 
Than these, thy brethren, of a higher faith, 
The lesson by their own Apostle taught, 
How to " be courteous." Now, my wearied limbs 



48 COURTESY. 

Upon the seat so pleasantly reclin'd, 
I fain would sing the praise of courtesy, 
Such as it flourish'd in the olden time, 
Spreading, chivalrously, its mantle down 
For lady's foot, or soothing the morose 
Into a good opinion of themselves, 
And opening thus a loophole, whence good will 
To others might peep through ; or, better still, 
When link'd to Christian principle, it breathes 
The law of kindness, and with winning grace 
Doth make another's happiness its own. 



KENDAL. 



A pleasant home-feeling came over us at Kendal. 
There our own little party of four, brightened a rain- 
storm with agreeable talk, and kept, in a quiet way, 
the birthday of one of our number, at a comfortable 
retreat, bearing the name of the " Commercial Inn." 
Less splendid in its apartments than some of the 
similar establishments in populous cities, it comprised 
every material element of satisfaction for those who, 
wearied with a recent voyage, were happy to refresh 
their spirits in each others' society, and find something 
stable under their feet. 

We again selected it for a habitation on our return 
from an excursion to the Lakes of Cumberland, prom- 
ising to recommend it to our friends. Indeed, it would 
generally be safe to bestow high approval on the means 
and appliances for the traveller's accommodation in 
England. Fine roads, excellent coaches, coachmen 
and horses, the best possible arrangement of railways 
and cars, the fairest provisions for the table, scrupulous 
neatness in the dormitories, and the respectful attend- 
ance of intelligent servants, await him throughout his 
4 



50 HISTORICAL INCIDENT. 

course. If the price demanded is in proportion to the 
liberal benefits received, that is but justice. Those 
who freely partake, should be willing to accord the 
remuneration. If they are not, they will be very likely 
to become so, after a taste of the discomforts and delays 
of continental travel. 

In wandering about Kendal we found the ruins of a 
castle, which was distinguished as the birthplace of 
Catharine Parr, and also an old church, of which a 
curious incident is related, during the civil wars in the 
times of Charles First. An adherent to the royal 
cause, by the name of Philipson, was on a visit to his 
brother who resided on the principal island of Winan- 
dermere. He had not long enjoyed this rural resi- 
dence, ere information of his locality was spread 
abroad, and the house besieged by Parliamentary 
troops, under the command of Colonel Briggs. The 
arrival of unexpected succor caused that officer to 
deem it expedient to raise the siege and retire. But 
the rescued guest, in the warlike spirit of those days, 
determined on retaliation. Taking command of a troop 
of horse, he pursued the retreating forces to Kendal. 
There he demanded Colonel Briggs, and was told 
he had gone to meeting. Not staying to dismount, he 
spurred his steed through the gateway, and into the 
church. Great was the consternation of the worship- 
pers, to hear the clatter of horses feet upon their pave- 
ment, and see the tall rider dash furiously through 
nave and chancel, sharply scrutinizing the face of every 
man, as he entered and returned. But this profana- 



KENDAL. 51 

tion of the sacred edifice was in vain, — the object of 
his search not happening to be there. 



Kendal, the eldest born of Westmoreland, 
With its white homes, and cheerful poplar shades. 
And graceful bridges o'er the winding Ken, 
And happy children playing in the streets, 
Came pleasantly upon us. 

So we paused, 
Leaving the echo of the tiresome wheels, 
Rejoiced, amid those rustic haunts to roam, 
And grassy lanes. 

There was an ancient church, 
Dark -browed, and Saxon-arched, and ivy-clad ; 
And there amid its hallowed isles we trod, 
Reading the mural tablets of the dead, 
Or poring o'er the dimly-sculptured names 
Upon its sunken pavement. 

Next, we sought 
Yon lonely castle, with its ruined towers, 
Around whose base the tangled foliage, mixed 
With shapeless stones, proclaimed no frequent foot 
Intruder 'mid its desolate domain. 
Yet here, the legend saith, thine infant eye 
First saw the light, Catharine ! the latest spouse 
Of the eighth Tudor's bluff and burly king. 
Here did thy childhood share the joyous sports 
That well it loved ? Or did they quaintly set 
The stiif-starched ruff around thy slender neck, 



52 KENDAL. 

Bidding thee stand upright, and not demean 
Thy rank and dignity ? 

Say, didst thou con 
Thy horn-book lessons mid those dreary halls, 
With their dark wainscot of old British oak ? 
Or on the broidered arras deftly trace 
Some tale of tourney and of regal pomp, 
That touched perchance the incipient energy 
Of young ambition to become a queen ? 
If it were so, methinks that latent pride 
Was well rebuked, perchance purged out entire 
With euphrasy and rue. 

How didst thou dare 
To build thy nest where other birds had fallen 
So fearfully ? If e'er the pictured scenes 
Of earlier years stole to thy palace-home, 
Pouring their quiet o'er its vexing cares, — 
Some cottage girl, who watched her father's sheep, 
Or peaceful peasant singing at his toil, 
Meekly content, — came there no pang to chase 
The fresh bloom from thy cheek ? 

When in his sleep 
The despot murmured sullenly and stern, 
Didst thou not tremble, lest in dreams he saw 
The axe and scaffold, and would madly wake 
To blend thy fate with that of Ann Boleyn 
And hapless Howard ? 

True, thy pious soul 
Had confidence in God, and this upheld 
In all calamities, and gave thee power 



KENDAL. 53 

To 'scape the snare ; but yet methinks 't were sad 
For woman's timid love to unfold itself 
Within a tyrant's breast, trusting its peace 
To the dire thunderbolt. 

And so farewell, 
Last of the six that rashly spread their couch 
In the strong lion's den. 

My talk with thee 
Doth add new pleasure to our quiet stroll 
Amid the lowly train, who, free from thoughts 
Of wild ambition, hold their noiseless way. 

Then toward the traveller's home, as twilight drew 

Her dusky mantle o'er the face of things, 

We bent our steps, with many a gathered theme 

For sweet discourse, till welcome evening brought 

Refreshment and repose. To our fair board 

The finny people of the Ken came up, 

Tempting the palate in the varied forms 

Of culinary art, while with the fruits 

That ripen slow 'neath England's shaded skies 

Were fresh-made cheeses from the creamy bowls, 

Filled by the herds that ruminate all day, 

In pastures richly green. 

So, well content, 
Beside the shaded lamp we lingering sate, 
And spoke of home, and of the Power who shields 
The weary traveller, and doth bid him sleep 
Secure 'neath foreign skies, cheering his dream 
With faces of his loved ones far away, 



54 KENDAL. 

And sound of gentle gales that stir the vines 
O'er his own door. 

For thus he seems to hold 
Existence in two hemispheres, and draw 
From nightly visions mid his household joys 
Fresh strength at morn to run his destined way, 
God of the stranger ! with new trust in thee. 



THE DOVE'S NEST. 



Too late ! too late ! Would that I might have ear- 
lier visited the Mother-Land, and added, if it were but 
one sight of the countenance and sound of the voice, to 
the image of that poet whose strains thrill my soul. 

Yonder unpretending cottage, the Dove's Nest, on 
the banks of Winandermere, was the summer retreat 
of Mrs. Hemans, in 1830. She was struck with the 
retired beauty of its situation, while on a visit to 
Wordsworth, and delighted to ascertain that she could 
engage rooms in it for herself and her boys. 

It was during this year, that she published her 
" Songs of the Affections." It would be interesting to 
know what portion of those pure gems of the heart 
sprang to light, or reached their highest polish amid 
the inspirations of that rural scenery. We imagined 
her seated in the alcove, which she has described as 
embowered amid the eglantine and rose, her sons — to 
whom a modern traveller has given the epithet of 
" young eagles" — freely pursuing their sports beneath 
her eye. 



56 DISTINGUISHED RESIDENTS. 

Wonderfully distinguished has that portion of the 
West of England been, by the residences of cele- 
brated men. Beside Wordsworth and Southey, and 
Coleridge, that most eloquent of all talkers, — De Quin- 
cey, the talented author, and Dr. Arnold, who is becom- 
ing more and more endeared to the lovers of right 
education, have made it their abode ; and Professor 
Wilson, turning from the " lights and shadows of Scot- 
tish life," passes the vacations at his pleasant villa of 
Elleray. Such men have power to quicken lifeless 
nature with the soul of genius. 

Westmoreland boasts bold mountains of some two 
or three thousand feet in height, — deep gorges of the 
loveliest green, and lakes of crystal. Driving, as we 
did, among them, in an open carriage, plunging sud- 
denly into ravines, and emerging thence at an angle 
of forty-five degrees, requires strong nerves to har- 
monize high enjoyment with such headlong exercise. 
The beauty of Grassmere is inexpressible ; but some of 
the cottages in its neighborhood would require a poet's 
enthusiasm to embellish or recommend their unfloored 
rudeness. 

Winandermere, during our visit, was much wrapped 
in mist and cloud. Still, we had some glimpses of its 
beautiful expanse, which will be long remembered. 
Sails were in perpetual motion among its islets, and it 
has a dark background of distant mountains. Accus- 
tomed to hear it spoken of as the largest of English 
lakes, we were surprised to find it but ten miles in 
length, and so narrow, at some points, as to make the 



LAKE WINANDERMERE. 57 

entire circumference only twenty-three miles. Though 
slightly varied by protracted drought, or rain, it is sub- 
ject to considerable agitation from wind and storm. It 
abounds with fine fish, and is a favorite resort for wild 
fowl and sportsmen, — the sharp report of the rifle 
often disturbing the solitary enthusiast. 



Oh, sweet Winandermere ! how blest 
Is he, who on thy marge may rest, — 
Rear his light bower ; 'neath summer's ray, 
Steal from the fever'd world away, — 
And when cool twilight, meek and pale, 
Spreads o'er thy face a deeper veil, 
List to the ripple on the shore, 
Or mark the lightly dripping oar, 
Or sink to sleep, when eve shall cease, 
With thee, and all mankind at peace. 

The angler here, with trolling line, 
Dreams on, from morn till day's decline, — 
And when brown autumn sets its seal, 
How sharply rings the hunter's steel ; 
But I, with these no concert keep, 
Nor aim to vex thy tranquil deep ; 
Nor barbed hook, with pang and start, 
Plunge in the finny victim's heart ; 
Nor work their woe, who, roaming free, 
Would dip the oary foot in thee. 



58 LAKE WINANDERMERE. 

Fair lakes my own dear land can boast, 
From inland glade to ocean coast, 
Through woven copse or thicket green, 
Their blue eyes deeply fringed are seen; 
On hillock's side they scoop a nest, 
Like dew-drops nursed in lily's breast. 
By Seneca, and lone St. Clair, 
The mirrored maiden braids her hair, 
And, guileless, to the searching sun, 
Turns crystal-breasted Horricon. 

Yet couldst thou see our mighty chain, 
From red Algonquin to the main, 
Those seas on seas, which, thundering, leap 
O'er strong Niagara's mountain-steep, 
And bid St. Lawrence hoarsely pour 
Round Anticosti's trembling shore, 
Thou, at their side, bright gem, wouldst be 
Like timid brooklet to the sea, 
And highest swoln and tempest-tost, 
Still, as a noteless speck, be lost. 

Still, o'er thy brow deep memories glide, 
And spirit-voices stir thy tide, 
For thou of her art pleased to tell, 
Queen of the lyre, who loved thee well, 
And in the Dove's Nest by thy side, 
Sought from the Grazing throng to hide 



LAKE WINANDERMERE. 59 

The laurel o'er her casement darkening, 
The rcse-tree for her footstep harkening ; 
I see her ! though in dust she sleeps ; 
I hear her ! though no lyre she sweeps ; 
And, for her sake, so fondly dear, 
I bless thee, sweet Winandermere. 



WORDSWORTH AND SOUTHEY. 



O vale of Grassmere ! tranquil, and shut out 
From all the strife that shakes a jarring world, 
How quietly thy village roofs are bowered 
In the cool verdure, while thy graceful spire 
Guardeth the ashes of the noble dead, 
And, like a fixed and solemn sentinel, 
Holm- Crag looks down on all. 

And thy pure lake, 
Spreading its waveless breast of azure out 
'Tween thee and us, — pencil, nor lip of man 
May fitly show its loveliness. The soul 
Doth hoard it as a gem, and, fancy-led, 
Explore its curving shores, its lonely isle, 
That, like an emerald clasped in crystal, sleeps. 

Ho, stern Helvellyn ! with thy savage cliffs 
And dark ravines, where the rash traveller's foot 
Too oft hath wandered far and ne'er returned, 
Why dost thou press so close yon margin green ? 
Like border-chieftain, seeking for his bride 
Some cottage-maiden. Prince among the hills, 



GRASSMERE AND HELVELLTN. 61 

That each upon his feudal seat maintains 
Strict sovereignty, hast thou a tale of love 
For gentle Grassmere, that thou thus dost droop 
Thy plumed helmet o'er her, and peruse, 
With such a searching gaze, her placid brow ? 

She listeneth coyly, and her guileless depths 
Are troubled at a tender thought from thee. 
And yet, methinks some speech of love should dwell 
In scenes so beautiful. For not in vain, 
Nor with a feeble voice, doth He, who spread 
Such glorious charms, bespeak man's kindliness 
For all whom He hath made, bidding the heart 
Grasp every creature with a warm embrace 
Of brotherhood. 

Lo ! what fantastic forms, 
In sudden change are traced upon the sky. 
The sun doth subdivide himself, and shine 
On either side of an elongate cloud, 
Which, like an alligator huge and thin, 
Piercest his disk. And then an ostrich seems 
Strangely to perch upon a wreath of foam, 
And gaze disdainful on the kingly orb, 
That lay o'erspent and weary. But he roused 
Up as a giant, and the welkin glowed 
With rushing splendor, while his puny foes 
Vanished in air. Old England's oaks outstretched 
Their mighty arms, and took that cloudless glance 
Into their bosoms, as a precious thing 
To be remembered lonsr. 



62 RYDAL-TFATER. 

And so we turned, 
And through romantic glades pursued our way, 
Where Rydal-Water spends its thundering force, 
And through the dark gorge makes a double plunge 
Abruptly beautiful. Thicket, and rock, 
And ancient summer-house, and sheeted foam, 
All exquisitely blent, while deafening sound 
Of torrents, battling with their ruffian foes, 
Filled the admiring gaze with awe, and wrought 
A dim forgetfulness of all beside. 

Thee, too, I found within thy sylvan dell, 
Whose music thrilled my heart, when life was new, 
Wordsworth ! mid cliff and stream and cultured rose, 
In love with Nature's self, and she with thee. 
Thy ready hand, that from the landscape culled 
Its long familiar charms, rock, tree, and spire, 
With kindness half paternal, leading on 
My stranger footsteps through the garden walk, 
Mid shrubs and flowers that from thy planting grew ; 
The group of dear ones gathering round thy board, 
She, the first friend, still as in youth beloved, 
The daughter, sweet companion, — sons mature, 
And favorite grandchild, with his treasured phrase, 
The evening lamp, that o'er thy silver locks 
And ample brow fell fitfully, and touched 
Thy lifted eye with earnestness of thought, 
Are with me as a picture, ne'er to fade, 
Till death shall darken all material things. 



VISIT TO WORDSWORTH. 63 

An excursion to Grassmere and Helvellyn, the Falls 
of Eydal- Water, Stock- Gill-Force, and other points of 
interest in the vicinity of Ambleside, communicated 
great pleasure to our party ; but at our return we 
found it had been purchased by the loss of a call from 
the poet Wordsworth. Though I had more earnestly 
desired to see him than almost any distinguished 
writer, whom from early life had been admired, it was 
with a degree of diffidence, amounting almost to tre- 
pidation, that I accepted the invitation to his house, 
which had been left at the inn. As I approached his 
lovely and unpretending habitation, embowered with 
ivy and roses, I felt that to go into the presence of 
Europe's loftiest crowned head, would not cost so 
much effort, as to approach and endeavor to converse 
with a king in the realm of mind. But the kindness 
of his reception and that of his family, and the uncere- 
monious manner in which they make a guest feel as 
one of them, removed the reserve and uneasiness of a 
stranger's heart. 

Wordsworth is past seventy years of age, and has 
the same full, expanded brow, which we see in his busts 
and engravings. His conversation has that simplicity 
and richness for which we are prepared by his writ- 
ings. He led me around his grounds, pointing out 
the improvements which he had made during the last 
thirty years, and the trees, hedges, and shrubbery 
which had been planted under his direction. Snatches 
of the gorgeous scenery of lake and mountain were 
visible from different points ; and one of the walks 



64 words worth's family. 

terminated with the near view of a chapel built by 
his neighbor, the Lady Elizabeth Le Fleming, on 
whose domain are both the upper and lower falls of 
Bydal- Water. In this beautiful combination of woods, 
cliffs, and waters, and solemn temple pointing to the 
skies, we see the germ of many of his thrilling descrip- 
tions ; for his habit is to compose in the open air. He 
loves the glorious scenery of his native region, and is 
evidently pleased when others admire it. 

His household consists of a wife, sister, two sons, 
and a daughter. The eldest of the sons is married, 
and, with a group of five children, resides under the 
same roof, giving to the family a pleasant, patriarchal 
aspect. A fine boy, of five years, who bears the name 
of his grandfather, and bids fair to possess somewhat 
of his breadth of brow, is evidently quite a favorite. 
Among his bright sayings was the question, whether 
" the Ocean ivas not the Christian-name of the Sea ? " 
It was delighful to see so eminent a poet, thus pur- 
suing the calm tenor of a happy life, surrounded by all 
those domestic affections and charities, which his pure 
lays have done so much to cherish in the hearts of 
others. 

"Wordsworth seems habitually pensive, almost to im- 
passiveness. Yet once I noticed in him some approach 
to naivete. We were all seated at the table, convers- 
ing, after the tea-equipage had been removed. It was 
a round table, with a closely fitting cover of India- 
rubber, on which a wreath of rich flowers had been 
painted. 



Wordsworth's birthday. 65 

" I wonder what sort of a table this is," said he. 
" It keeps its own secrets. I never had a chance to 
look at it." 

Some little reply was made by Mrs. Wordsworth, 
when, turning to me, he asked, " Is it not a natural 
curiosity in me to wish to look upon this table, once 
in my life ? I am determined to see it now." 

With some difficulty, he disengaged the adhesive 
envelope, and spreading out his thin hands upon the 
board, exclaimed, with satisfaction, — 

" There ! I've got a sight of it at last. It is a mahog- 
any table, and a very good one too." 

This playfulness, set off by the solemnity of his man- 
ner, seemed to delight his household, and was possibly 
an episode of rare occurrence. The ripening of this 
personal acquaintance into epistolary intercourse and 
friendship, was truly gratifying to me, as was also his 
benignant approval of the annexed simple greeting, on 
the first recurrence of his birthday, after my return 
home. 

High-thoughted Bard of Rydal's sounding tide, 
Whose stricken lyre, across the ocean blue, 

Doth stir our forests in their unshorn pride, 

And sweetly steal the woodman's cabin through, 

Thy day of birth, here, on Columbia's shore, 
The sons of song in faithful memory keep ; 

White-pinioned sea-birds brought the record o'er 
The tossing billows of the boisterous deep, — 
5 



6G SOUTHEY. 

So now, — the hour that first with light inspired 
An eye that deep in Nature's heart doth look, 

Comes with the power of deathless genius fired, 
To stamp with signet-ring our household book : 

Oh, Bard of tuneful soul ! may health be thine, 
And ever-cloudless peace illume thy day's decline. 

It was during my visit to Wordsworth, that I first 
received intelligence of the melancholy declension of 
health and intellect which had befallen Southey. With 
reluctance I resigned my intention of going to Kes- 
wick, having been extremely desirous to see him, and 
being provided with letters of introduction from mutual 
friends. How mournful, that such a rayless cloud 
should envelop that genius which has so long thrown 
a bridge of light and beauty across the Atlantic. 
Sometimes I have thought his prolific and versatile 
powers well symbolized in one of his own descriptive 
passages : — 

" The stream's perpetual flow, 
That with its shadows and its glancing lights, 
Dimples, and threadlike motions infinite, 
Forever varying, and yet still the same, 
Like Time towards Eternity, glides on." 

A letter from the successor of his beloved Edith, 
mentions, feelingly, the state of unconsciousness that 
overshadows him, and says : " In the blackness of this 
darkness we still live, and shall pass from under it, 



SOUTHEY. 67 

only through the portals of the grave." She is well 
known to the reading public, by her former name of 
Caroline Bowles, as the author of the " Pauper's 
Death-Bed," with other pathetic and elegant effusions. 
Her conjugal love faithfully ministers to this severe 
visitation of one of the most gifted and indefatigable 
minds which has adorned our age. 

I thought to see thee in thy lake-girt home, 
Thou of creative soul ! I thought with thee 

Amid thy mountain solitudes to roam, 

And hear the voice, whose echoes wild and free 

Had strangely thrilled me, when my life was new, 
With old romantic tales of wondrous lore ; 

But ah ! they told me that thy mind withdrew 
Into its mystic cell, — nor evermore 

Sate on the lip in fond familiar word ; 

Nor through the speaking eye her love repaid, 
Whose heart for thee with ceaseless care is stirred : 
That mute at Greta-Hall, on willow-shade, 
Thy sweet harp hung : — They told me, and I wept, 
As on my pilgrim way o'er England's vales I kept. 



CARLISLE. 



Our ride from Ambleside to Carlisle, by the way of 
Kendal, was amid those quiet rains with which the 
English skies so often refresh the traveller. But soon 
after our arrival, the sun broke forth, revealing a 
landscape of much beauty. This region, distinguished 
by border warfare, gives occasionally a sanguine tinge 
to the ancient chronicles. It seems also to have had 
its share in the more sacred festivities of the olden 
time, as we gather from one of the ballads preserved 
in Percy's Reliques : — 

" In Carlisle dwelt King Arthur, 

A prince of passing might, 
And there maintained his ' Table Round, 1 

Begirt by many a knight, 
And there he kept his Christmas, 

With mirth and great delight." 

Our first walk was to the Castle. A most glorious 
sunset saw we from its heights. On its parapets, 
where the cannon are mounted, is a large, fine old dial, 
with the following forcible inscription in letters of gold : 



THE CASTLE. 69 

" Hours, or ages, are nothing to the Eternal ; but as 
for man, they fix his changeless doom for weal or for 
woe." 

This structure, which we spent a considerable time in 
examining, claims Edward the Third as its founder. It 
gave shelter, for a night, to his unfortunate grandson, 
Richard the Second, while on his humiliating journey in 
the custody of his usurping and vindictive cousin, after- 
wards Henry the Fourth. Here, also, Fergus Maclvor 
endured imprisonment, and was led forth to execution. 
They profess to show the print of his hand, in stone of 
rather a soft texture, which lines the walls of his cell. 

Other mournful recollections of the " sighing of the 
prisoner," connect this edifice with Mary of Scotland. 
We visited the remains of the turret where she was 
immured, when, after the disastrous battle of Langside, 
she threw herself on the generosity of her royal cousin 
of England. In a secluded promenade, skirted by a 
moat, she was permitted to take daily exercise, under 
the guardianship of sentinels. Two ash trees marked 
its extreme limit. They were said to have been 
planted by her own hand. They attained such a size, 
as to rank among the largest trees of Cumberland, 
and the antiquarian cannot but regret that they should 
have been cut down for some architectural improve- 
ment. A bouquet of carnations, from this queenly tread- 
mill, was presented us, which retained much of their 
freshness and fragrance even after we reached the 
realm of which she once wore the troubled crown. 
The guide from whom we obtained them, pointed 



70 CATHEDRAL SERVICE. 

out to us a narrow-mouthed well, ninety feet in depth, 
which he said, " without doubt, was dug by His Majes- 
ty, Julius Caesar." 

It was at Carlisle that we attended, for the first time, 
the Sabbath cathedral service of the Mother-Land. 
To us, it was solemn and impressive. An anthem, 
from Psalm 55th, " Hear my prayer," was most touch- 
ingly performed by two chanting boys, with the rich 
tones of a majestic organ. The interest with which we 
viewed the congregation, was heightened by the ap- 
pearance of a large number of neatly dressed, and 
decorously behaved charity-children, and also, to us, 
the novel circumstance of a military feature in the 
audience. A garrison from the Castle, of three hun- 
dred soldiers, entered in full uniform, with subdued 
martial music, and joined reverently in the service. 
Methought, Mars was kneeling at the feet of Christ, as 
the responses burst forth clearly from the lips of this 
portion of the " church militant." The Dean gave a 
good discourse from that comprehensive passage of St. 
Peter, " Through sanctification of the Spirit, with obe- 
dience, and sprinkling of the blood of Christ." 



How graceful, 'mid their garniture of green, 
Gleam out thy roofs, Carlisle ! — thy castled towers 
Symmetrical, — thy fair Cathedral dome 
In solitary majesty, — thy bridge 
Spanning the Eden, where the angler sits 
Patient so long, and seems to count the sheep, 



CARLISLE. 71 

Sprinkled like snow-flakes o'er luxuriant vales. 

— Lo ! Time doth hang upon thy misty heights 

Legends of warlike and of festal deeds, 

Symbols of old renown, — the fearful beak 

Of Rome's victorious eagle, — Pictish spear, — 

King Arthur's wassail cup, — the battle-axe 

Of the fierce Danish sea-kings, — Highland targe, 

And Scottish claymore, in confusion blent 

With England's cloth-yard arrow. Yea, each helm 

And dinted cuirass, hath its stirring tale : 

Yet there thou sitt'st as meekly innocent 

As though thine eager lip had never quaff'd 

Hot streams of kindred blood. 

Art pleased to hear 
No more of border feuds ? Art glad to cast 
Thy frontier annal, with its crimson stains, 
Down at the feet of the united realms, 
Who, arm in arm, survey their joint domain ? 
So may the God of love bless them and thee. 

Sweet flowers thou pressest in our stranger-hands, 
Rich, red carnations, from " Queen Mary's walk : " 
But unto her forsaken heart, thy gifts 
Were only bitter weeds, and rankling thorns, 
Such as the captive plucks. Methinks we hear 
Her mournful weeping, as she turns away, 
With none to pity. 

Many a brilliant change 
In those delightful landscapes, cheered the eye, 
As onward o'er the fringed banks of Clyde 



72 SCOTLAND. 

We sought the barren hills and crystal streams 
Of Caledonia ; poor, perchance, in gold, 
But rich in deathless song. 

Swift rolled the Esk, 
Where the impetuous young Lord Lochinvar 
Stayed not for ford, but plunging, braved its wrath, 
And rushed in conquering arrogance to claim 
The bride of Netherby. 

Up rose in light, 
Branksom's lyre-honor'd tower ; the pleasant homes 
Of Teviotdale, fast by the River Tweed ; 
And then, like throned queen, the attic robes 
Of beautiful Edina. 

Yet, we spake 
Oft-times of thee, Carlisle ! for thy sweet smile, 
And the deep cadence of thy chanted hymn 
That taught our Sabbath of the choir of heaven, 
Went with us, as we journeyed. So we said 
Once more, " farewell ! and peace be with thee still." 



HOLYROOD. 



On our arrival at Edinburgh, we found accommo- 
dations, successively, at two of the principal hotels, 
which had been commended to us by English friends. 
But we were eventually induced to try the plan of 
taking lodgings. These we were so fortunate as to 
obtain in a* rf delightful house on Prince's Street, oppo- 
site the Castle, owned by a pleasant lady, recently left 
a widow, and willing thus to aid a restricted income. 
Here we had, on the second story, what the Scotch 
call a "whole flat," comprising parlor, dining-room, 
and three neatly furnished dormitories. Every even- 
ing we gave a written bill of fare for the next day, to 
our kind hostess, who was faithful in carrying out our 
wishes in the minutest particular. Seated around our 
comfortable board, and enjoying quiet conversation, 
correspondence or reading, when wearied with out-door 
explorations, we were able to cherish more of the home- 
feeling than is wont to be found in a land of strangers. 
It was also gratifying to perceive that our domestic 
arrangements were remarkably consistent with econ- 
omy, and entirely satisfactory to our attentive and 



74 KING DAYID THE FIRST. 

gentle-mannered landlady, in whose welfare we felt 
interest and sympathy. 

One of the advantages of our location was its prox- 
imity to Holyrood, giving us facilities for frequently 
visiting its environs. That edifice, whose aspect is far 
from imposing, was originally an abbey, founded in 
1128, by David the First, of Scotland. The ancient 
legend says, that while hunting, and separated from his 
train, he was attacked and overthrown by a wild stag, 
and rescued from impending death by the sudden ap- 
pearance of an arm from a dark cloud, holding a 
luminous cross, which so frightened the furious animal, 
that he fled away into the depths of the forest. The 
monarch determined to erect a religious house on the 
very spot of his deliverance, and to call it Holyrood, 
or Holy Cross. It might be proper to supply a strong 
reason for the selection of so obscure a site, but scarcely 
necessary to invent a miracle for so common an occur- 
rence as the erection of an ecclesiastical edifice by 
king David, since it is well known that fifteen owe their 
origin to him ; among which are the fine abbeys of 
Melrose and Dryburgh, Kelso and Jedburgh, with the 
cathedrals of Glasgow and Aberdeen. The gratitude 
of the monastic orders, whom he patronized, conferred 
on him the title of Saint ; but the heavy expenses thus 
incurred, imposed many burdens upon his realm, and 
caused James the Sixth, not inappositely, to style him 
" a saur saint to the crown." 

The first view of Holyrood is in strong contrast with 
the splendid buildings and classic columns of the Cal- 



CHAPEL AND VAULT. 75 

ton-Hill. After admiring the monuments of Dugald 
Stewart, and Nelson, and the fine edifice for the High 
School, you look down at the extremity of the Canon- 
gate upon the old palace, that, seated at the foot of 
Salisbury Crag, nurses, in comparative desolation, the 
memories of the past. Its chapel, floored with tomb- 
stones, and open to the winds of heaven, admonishes 
human power and pride of their alliance with vanity. 

Through an iron grate we saw, in a damp, miserable 
vault, the bones of some of the kings of Scotland ; 
among them those of Henry Darnley, without even the 
covering of that " little charity of earth," which the 
homeless beggar finds. In another part of the royal 
chapel, unmarked by any inscription, are the remains of 
the lovely young Queen Magdalen, daughter of Francis 
the First of France, who survived but a short time her 
marriage with James the Fifth. In the same vicinity, 
sleep two infant princes, by the name of Arthur ; one the 
son of him who fell at Flodden Field, the other a brother 
of Mary of Scotland. Scarcely a single monument, 
deserving of notice as a work of art, is to be found at 
Holyrood, except that of Viscount Bellhaven, a privy- 
councillor of Charles the First, who died in 1G39. He 
is commemorated by a statue of Parian marble, which 
is in singular contrast with the rough black walls of 
the ruinous tower, where it is placed. It has a diffuse 
and elaborate inscription, setting forth that "Nature 
supplied his mind by wisdom, for what was w r anting in 
his education ; that he would easily get angry, and as 
easily, even while speaking, grow calm ; and that he 



76 rizzio. 

enjoyed the sweetest society in his only wife, Nicholas 
Murray, daughter of the Baron of Abercairney, who 
died in eighteen months after her marriage." 

The grave of Rizzio is pointed out under one of the 
passages to a piazza, covered with a flat stone. Over 
the mantel-piece of the narrow closet, where from his 
last fatal supper he was torn forth by the conspirators, 
is a portrait said to be of him. Its authenticity is 
exceedingly doubtful ; yet it has been honored by one 
of the beautiful effusions of Mrs. Hemans, written dur- 
ing her visit to Holyrood, in 1829. 

" They haunt me still, those calm, pure, holy eyes ! 
Their piercing sweetness wanders through my dreams ; 
The soul of music, that within them lies, 
Comes o'er my soul in soft and sudden gleams ; 
Life, spirit, life immortal and divine 
Is there, and yet how dark a death was thine." 

In the gallery at Holyrood, which is 150 feet long, 
and plain even to meanness, are the portraits of one 
hundred and eleven Scottish monarchs, the greater part 
of which must, of course, be creations of fancy. Some 
of the more distinguished chieftains are interspersed 
with them. In the line of the Stuarts, we remarked 
the smallness and delicacy of the hands, which histori- 
ans have mentioned as a marked feature of that unfor- 
tunate house. The only female among this formidable 
assemblage of crowned heads, is Mary of Scotland. 
This, her ancestral palace, teems with her relics ; and, 
however questionable is the identity of some of them, 



REIGN OF QUEEN MARY. 77 

they are usually examined with interest by visitants. 
The antique cicerone, to whom this department apper- 
tained, and whose voice had grown hoarse and hollow 
by painful recitations in these damp apartments, still 
threw herself into an oratorical attitude, and bestowed 
an extra emphasis, when any favorite article was to be 
exhibited, such as " Queen Mairy's work-box ! Queen 
Mairy's candelabra ! " The latter utensil, it seems, 
she brought with her from France. Probably some 
tender associations, known only to herself, clustered 
around it ; for she was observed often to fix her eyes 
mournfully upon it, as a relic of happier days. In her 
apartments, we were shown the stone on which she 
knelt at her coronation ; the embroidered double chair, 
or throne, on which she and Darnley sat after their 
marriage ; the state-bed, ready to perish, and despoiled 
of many a mouldering fragment by antiquarian vorac- 
ity ; her dressing-case, marvellously destitute of neces- 
sary materials ; and the round, flat basket, in which 
the first suit of clothes for her only infant were laid. 
These articles, and many others of a similar nature, 
brought her palpably before us, and awakened our 
sympathies. There was a rudeness, an absolute want 
of comfort about all her appointments, which touched us 
with pity, and led us back to the turbulent and half 
civilized men by whom she was surrounded, and from 
whom she had little reason to expect forbearance as 
a woman, or obedience as a queen. The closet, to 
which we were shown the secret staircase where the 
assassins entered, seems scarcely of sufficient dimen- 



78 RELIQUES OF QUEEN MARY. 

sions to allow the persons, who are said to have been 
assembled there, the simplest accommodations for a 
repast ; especially if Darnley was of so gigantic pro- 
portions as the armor, still preserved there and asserted 
to be his, testifies. Poor Mary, notwithstanding her 
errors, and the mistakes into which she was driven by 
the fierce spirit of her evil times, is now remembered 
throughout her realm, with a sympathy and warmth of 
appreciation, which failed to cheer her sufferings dur- 
ing life. Almost constantly you meet with memorials 
of her. In the Castle of Edinburgh, you have pointed 
out to you a miserable, dark room, about eight feet 
square, where her son, James the Sixth, was born ; in 
the Parthenon, among the gatherings of the Antiqua- 
rian Society, you are shown the cup from which she 
used to feed her infant prince, and the long white kid 
gloves, strongly embroidered with black, which she was 
said to have worn upon the scaffold ; and in the dining- 
hall at Abbotsford, you start at a most distressing por- 
trait of her, her head in a charger, taken the day after 
her execution. Near the Cathedral of Peterborough, 
where her body was interred, the following striking 
inscription was once put up in Latin. It was almost 
immediately removed, and the writer never discov- 
ered, and we are indebted to Camden for its preserva- 
tion. 

" Mary, Queen of Scots, daughter of a king, kins- 
woman and next heir to the Queen of England, adorned 
with royal virtues and a noble spirit, having often, but 
in vain, implored to have the rights of a prince done 



CHAPEL OF HOLYROOD. 79 

unto her, is, by a barbarous and tyrannical cruelty, cut 
off. And by one and the same infamous judgment, 
both Mary of Scotland is punished with death, and all 
kin^s now living are made liable to the same. A 
strange and uncouth kind of grave is this, wherein the 
living are included with the dead ; for we know that with 
her ashes the majesty of all kings and princes lie here 
depressed and violated. But because this regal secret 
doth admonish all kings of their duty, Traveller ! I 
shall say no more." 

In the modern portion of Holyrood is a pleasant suite 
of apartments, which were occupied by Charles the 
Tenth of France, when he found refuge in Scotland 
from his misfortunes at home. They have ornamented 
ceilings, and are hung with tapestry. 

The Duke of Hamilton, who is keeper of the palace, 
has apartments there, as has also the Marquis of 
Breadalbane. Those of the latter are decorated with 
a large collection of family portraits, among which is a 
fine one, by Vandyke, of Lady Isabella Rich, holding a 
lute, on which instrument, we are informed by the poet 
Waller, she had attained great excellence. 

We found ourselves attracted to make repeated visits 
to Holyrood, and never on those occasions omitted its 
roofless chapel, so rich in recollections. It required, 
however, a strong effort of imagination to array it in the 
royal splendor with which the nuptials of Queen Mary 
were there solemnized ; and, seventy years afterwards, 
the coronation of her grandson, Charles the First. The 
processions, the ringing of bells, the gay tapestry 



80 CORONATION OF CHARLES THE FIRST. 

streaming from the windows of the city ; the rich cos- 
tumes of the barons, bishops, and other nobility ; the 
king, in his robes of crimson velvet, attending devoutly 
to the sacred services of the day, receiving the oaths of 
allegiance, or scattering, through his almoner, broad 
gold pieces among the people, are detailed with minute- 
ness and delight by the Scottish chroniclers of that 
period. " Because this was the most glorious and 
magnifique coronatione that ever was seine in this 
kingdom," says Sir James Balfour, " and the first 
king of Greate Britain that ever was crowned in Scot- 
land, to behold these triumphs and ceremonies, many 
strangers of grate quality resorted hither from divers 
countries." 

Who can muse at Holyrood without retracing the 
disastrous fortunes of the house of Stuart, whose images 
seem to glide from among the ruined arches, where 
they once held dominion. James the First was a pris- 
oner through the whole of his early life, and died under 
the assassin's steel. James the Second was destroyed 
by the bursting of one of his own cannon at the siege 
of Roxburgh. James the Third was defeated in battle 
by rebels headed by his own son, and afterwards assas- 
sinated. James the Fourth fell, with the flower of his 
army, at Flodden Field, and failed even of the rites of 
sepulture. James the Fifth died of grief, in the prime 
of life, at the moment of the birth of his daughter, who, 
after twenty years of imprisonment in England, was 
condemned to the scaffold. James the First of Eng- 
land, though apparently more fortunate than his ances- 



HOUSE OF STUART. 81 

tors, was menaced by conspiracy, suffered the loss of 
his eldest son ; and saw his daughter a crownless queen. 
Charles the First had his head struck off in front of his 
own palace. Charles the Second was compelled to fly 
from his country, and after twelve years' banishment 
returned to an inglorious reign. James the Second 
abdicated his throne, lost three kingdoms, died an exile, 
and was the last of his race who inhabited the palace 
of Holy rood. 



Old Holyrood ! Edina's pride, 

Where erst, in regal state arrayed, 

The mitred abbots told their beads, 

And chanted 'neath thy hallowed shade ; 

And nobles, in thy palace courts, 
Revel, and dance, and pageant led, 

And trump to tilt and tourney called, 
And royal hands the banquet spread ; 

A lingering beauty still is thine, 

Though age on age have o'er thee rolled, 
Since good king David reared thy walls, 

With turrets proud and tracery bold. 

And still the Norman's pointed arch 

Its interlacing blends sublime 
With Gothic columns' clustered strength, 

Where foliage starts and roses climb. 
6 



82 HOLYROOD. 

High o'er thy head rude Arthur's Seat 
And Salisbury Crag in ledges rise, 

Where love the hurtling winds to shriek 
Wild chorus to the wintry skies. 

The roofless chapel, stained with years, 
And paved with tombstones damp and low, 

Yon gloomy vault, whose grated doors 
The bones of prince and chieftain show 

Unburied, while from pictured hall, 
In armor decked, or antique crown, 

A strange interminable line 

Of Scotia's kings look grimly down, 

Yet with bold touch hath Fancy wrought, 
And ranged her airy region wide, 

The features and the form to give, 

Where History scarce a name supplied. 

Methinks o'er every mouldering wall, 
Around each arch and buttress twine, 

Like rustling banner's dreamy fold, 
The chequered fate of Stuart's line. 

First of that race, whose early years 
Dragged slowly on in captive's cell ; 

And he, who at the cannon's mouth 
In the dire siege of Roxburgh fell ; 



HOLYROOD. 83 

And he who felt the assassin's steel, 
Though erst with sharper anguish tried 

From rebel son and traitor chief ; — 
Before my sight they seem to glide. 

He, too, at Flodden Field who died, 

The belt of iron round his breast, 
Held his last frantic orgies here, 

And rushed to battle's dreamless rest. 

And Margaret's son, and Mary's sire, 
Methinks I see him, wrapped in gloom, 

Glance coldly on the babe, whose birth 
Just marked the portal of his tomb : 

" An heir to Scotia's throne, Oh king ! 

A daughter fair ! " the herald said ; — 
No smile he gave, no hand he raised, 

They touched his forehead — he was dead. 

And he, the anointing oil who bore 

Of Albion on his princely head, 
Yet basely, near his palace-door, 

Upon the sable scaffold bled, 

In youthful days, when skies were bright, 
And nought the coming doom betrayed, 

The crown upon his temples placed 
In yonder chapel's sacred shade. 



84 HOLYROOD. 

But most, of Scotia's fairest flower 
Old Holyrood with mournful grace 

Doth every withered petal hoard, 
And dwell on each recorded trace. 

I 've stood upon the castled height, 
Where green Carlisle its turrets rears, 

And mused on Mary's grated cell, 
Her smitten hopes, her captive tears, 

When from Lochleven's dreary fosse, 

From Langside's transient gleam of bliss, 

She threw herself on queenly faith, 
On kindred blood, — for this ! for this ! 

I 've marked along the stagnant moat, 
Her stinted walk mid soldiers grim, 

Or, listening, caught the burst of woe 
That mingled with her vesper-hymn ; 

Or 'neath the shades of Fotheringay, 

In vision seen the faded eye, 
The step subdued, the prayer devout, 

The sentenced victim led to die. 

But simpler relics, fond and few, 
That in this palace-chamber lie, 

Of woman's lot, and woman's care, 
Touch tenderer chords of sympathy ; 



HOLTROOD. 85 

The arras, with its storied lore, 

By her own busy needle wrought, 
The couch, where oft her throbbing brow 

For sweet oblivion vainly sought ; 

The basket, once with infant robes 

So rich, her own serene employ, 
While o'er each lovely feature glowed 

A mother's yet untasted joy ; 

The candelabra's fretted shaft, 

Beside whose flickering midnight flame 

In sad communion still she bent 
With genial France, from whence it came ; 

Those sunny skies, those hearts refined, 
The wreaths that Love around her threw, 

The homage of a kneeling realm, 
The misery of her last adieu ! 

Ah ! were her errors all resolved 

To their first elemental fount, 
Must not her dark and evil times 

Share deeply in the dire amount ? 

We may not say ; we only know 

Their record is with One on high, 
Who ne'er the unuttered motive scans 

With partial or vindictive eye. 



86 HOLYROOD. 

Yon secret stairs, yon closet nook, 

The swords that through the arras gleam, 

Rude Darnley's ill-dissembled joy, 

Lost Rizzio's shrill, despairing scream, 

The chapel, decked for marriage rite, 
The royal bride, with flushing cheek, 

Triumphant Bothwell's hateful glance, 
Alas ! alas ! what words they speak ! 

Dread gift of Beauty ! who can tell 
The ills and perils round thee strown, 

When warm affections fire the heart, 

And Fortune gives the dangerous throne, 

And Power's intoxicating cup, 

And Flattery's wile the conscience tame, 
And strong Temptation spreads its snare, 

And scowling Hatred wakes to blame ? 

Yet, since each trembling shade of guilt 
None, save the eternal Judge, may know, 

O'er erring hearts, by misery crushed, 
Let pity's softening tear-drop flow. 



HAWTHORNDEN. 



This classic retreat is the site of a modern edifice, 
occupied, at the time we visited it, by Sir Francis 
Drummond Walker. The rock on which the rear wall 
of the mansion is built, descends abruptly more than a 
hundred feet to an abyss, or narrow passage, where the 
Esk forces its way. Mingled with the refinements of 
a modern residence are the broken arches and moss- 
grown relics of the ancient structure, rudely but strongly 
fortified. 

Cut in the wall of the caverns to which you descend, 
are a number of compartments in the honeycomb form, 
which bear the name of " King Robert Bruce's Libra- 
ry." We had heard of the lesson he received from a 
spider ; but did not know before that he had any affin- 
ity for the bee. His warrior's life probably made him 
more familiar with the use of the sting, than the honey 
of sweet meditation. His formidable sword was ex- 
hibited at the entrance of this curious hive. 

Amid that labyrinth of subterranean dens, the Cove- 
nanters, in the days of " Old Mortality," sought refuge. 
Thence, also, during the contests of Bruce and Baliol, 



88 DRUMMOND. 

issued Sir Alexander Ramsay, performing memorable 
exploits. 

But the principal charm of this remarkable scenery- 
is its association with the poet Drummond, its early 
master. He was in the habit of composing his verses 
in a romantic nook, scooped out of the face of the cliff, 
hidden by hawthorn, and not very accessible to the foot 
of the uninitiated. Here he secured that prize, so 
dear to the children of the muse, — freedom from the 
fear of interruption. 

Drummond was a rare combination of the poet 
and the country gentleman. With him, " high-erected 
thoughts, seated in a heart of courtesy," — to borrow Sir 
Philip Sydney's beautiful words, — did not overpower 
the practical part of his nature, or the amiable sensibil- 
ities of domestic life. One of the first poems that gave 
him celebrity was a feeling effusion on the death of 
the young prince Henry, son of that Scottish James 
who ascended the English throne after the death of 
Elizabeth. The music of his sonnets seemed to linger 
amid his favorite shades, and we could almost fancy 
we heard him saying, — 

" I know that all beneath the moon decays, 
And what by mortals in this world is brought, 
In Time's great periods shall return to nought ; 
That fairest states have fatal nights and days. 
I know that all the Muses' heavenly lays, 
With toil of sprite, which are so dearly bought, 
As idle sounds, of few, or none are sought; 
That there is nothing lighter than vain praise. 
I know frail beauty's like the purple flower, 
Which finds its birth and death in one brief waning hour.' ' 



DRUMMOND. 89 

At this sylvan retreat he entertained King Charles 
First, on his visit to Edinburgh. Here, also, many 
years afterwards, he received a different guest, — the 
renowned dramatist, Ben Johnson, who performed a 
pedestrian journey from London, to pass a few weeks 
under his roof. Their first interview was beneath the 
spreading branches of a venerable oak. Drummond 
advancing to meet him, exclaimed, with the warmth of 
Scottish hospitality, 

" Welcome, welcome, royal Ben :" 

to which the poet-laureate promptly replied, — 

" Thank ye, thank ye, Hawthornden." 

This characteristic greeting and rejoinder, are en- 
graved as the motto of a ring, given me by a loved and 
now departed friend. What enhances its value, as 
well as its adaptation, is the insertion, as a signet, of a 
highly polished Scottish pebble, found at the root of 
this very oak that sanctioned, by its protecting shade, 
the meeting of these choice spirits. I wore it on my 
finger during my visit to this spot. Methought it had 
a talismanic power, and that the spirit of the poet still 
lingered among the scenery he so much loved. Its 
wonderfully romantic character, the wild rocks, the bold 
river, the secluded walks, the glens, the caves, the 
historical tree, the curtaining ivy, the musing garden- 
seats, the eloquent flowers, constituted a charm never 
to be forgotten. 



90 KOSLIN-CASTLE. 

From Hawthornden, we took it upon us to walk to 
Roslin-Castle, a distance of more than two miles. The 
broken nature of the ground made it a laborious effort, 
and we arrived, thoroughly wearied, at the ancient 
abode of the " lordly line of high St. Clair." It is a 
fine ruin, and the chapel has an antiquity of more than 
five centuries. The Earl of Roslin is at present super- 
intending repairs upon it ; and we saw some exquisite 
carvings, and also designs from scripture, sculptured 
in stone of a soft material. We were presented with 
some gooseberries, ripening in the garden, which were 
uncommonly large, but destitute of the flavor which 
our own warmer skies produce. But amid the vestiges 
and legends of baronial splendor, our talk was still of 
Hawthornden. 



Though Scotia hath a thousand scenes 

To strike the traveller's eye, 
Clear-bosomed lakes, and leaping streams, 

And mountains bleak and high ; 
Yet when he seeks his native clime 

And ingle-side again, 
'T would be a pity, had he missed 

To visit Hawthornden. 

Down, down, precipitous and rude, 

The rocks abruptly go, 
While through their deep and narrow gorge 

Foams on the Esk below ; 



HAWTHORNDEN. 91 

Yet though it plunges strong and bold, 

Its murmurs meet the ear, 
Like fretful childhood's weak complaint, 

Half smothered in its fear. 

There's plenty, in my own dear land, 

Of cave and wild cascade, 
And all my early years were spent 

In such romantic glade ; 
And I could featly climb the cliff, 

Or forest roam and fen ; 
But I 've been puzzled here among 

These rocks of Hawthornden. 

Here, too, are labyrinthine paths 

To caverns dark and low, 
Wherein, they say, king Robert Bruce 

Found refuge from his foe ; 
And still amid their relics old 

His stalwart sword they keep, 
Which telleth tales of cloven heads 

And gashes, dire and deep : 

While, sculptured in the yielding stone 

Full many a niche they show, 
Where erst his library he stored, 

(The guide-boy told us so.) 
Slight need had he of books, I trow, 

Mid hordes of savage men, 
And precious little time to read 

At leagured Hawthornden. 



92 HAWTHORNDEN. 

Loud pealing from those caverns drear, 

In old disastrous times, 
The Covenanter's nightly hymn 

Upraised its startling chimes ; 
Here, too, they stoutly stood at bay, 

Or, frowning, sped along, 
To meet the high-born cavalier 

In conflict fierce and strong. 

And here 's the hawthorn-broidered nook, 

Where Drummond, not in vain, 
Awaited his inspiring muse, 

And wooed her dulcet strain. 
And there 's the oak, beneath whose shade 

He welcomed tuneful Ben, 
And still the memory of their words 

Is nursed in Hawthornden. 

Flowers ! flowers ! how thick and rich they grow, 

Along the garden fair, 
And sprinkle on the dewy sod 

Their gifts of fragrance rare. 
Methinks from many a heather bell 

Peeps forth some fairy lance, 
And then a tiny foot protrudes, 

All ready for the dance ; 

Methinks 'neath yon broad laurel leaf 

They hold their revels light, 
Imprinting with a noiseless step 

The mossy carpet bright ; 



HAWTHORNDEN. 93 

And then their ringing laughter steals 

From some sequestered glen, 
A fitting place for fays to sport 

Is pleasant Hawthornden. 

'T were sweet indeed to linger here, 

And list the streamlet's sound, 
And see poetic fancies spring 

Up, like the flowers around; 
Up, as the creeping ivy wreathes 

Its green and gadding spray, 
And from the gay and heartless crowd 

Steal evermore away. 

Yes, sweet, if life were but a dream, 

And we, on charmed ground, 
Were free to choose at pleasure's call, 

And not to judgment bound. 
But Duty spreads a different path, 

And we her call must ken ; 
And so a kind and long farewell 

To classic Hawthornden. 



GLASGOW. 

An episode from the Athens of Scotland, to its com- 
mercial capita], furnished an agreeable variety for 
observation and remembrance. The intervening space 
of forty miles, traversed in the stage-coach, was not 
particularly interesting. It was sprinkled, here and 
there with villages ; among which, the Kirk of Shorts, 
on the borders of a bleak moor, had a dreary aspect, 
and Airdrie, with its throng of iron furnaces, exhibited 
indubitable marks of active industry. 

Glasgow, though not peculiarly picturesque, spreads 
out on the banks of the Clyde some finely variegated 
landscapes. It is the first city in Scotland, as it regards 
population, manufacturing energy, and the spirit of 
enterprize. The wealth of its merchants allows them 
to live in a style of princely liberality, but among the 
lower classes are indications of extreme poverty. 

Its massy and venerable Cathedral is admired by 
all strangers, and boasts an antiquity of between seven 
and eight hundred years. The far-famed Hunterian 
Museum, and beautiful Botanic Garden, ought never 
to escape the notice of visitants. The public grounds 



BRITISH ASSOCIATION. 95 

are adorned by many imposing statues. Among the 
great men thus distinguished, are Nelson, Pitt, and 
"Wellington ; Walter Scott, on his doric column of 
eighty feet ; in the immediate vicinity, James Watt, 
the improver of the steam-engine ; and Sir John Moore, 
whose elegiac tribute by Wolfe will longer perpetuate 
his memory than the monumental marble. 

The University of Glasgow is a noble institution. 
Its foundation was laid about the middle of the fif- 
teenth century, by a bequest of four acres of land, and 
some tenements, by the house of Hamilton. Its spa- 
cious halls were rendered more interesting to us by 
being thrown open for the important purposes of the 
great " British Association for the Advancement of 
Science," whose annual meeting had been appointed 
in this city. Hundreds of distinguished men, from dif- 
ferent lands, were thus convened, and it was delightful 
to hear them presenting, day after day, in the respec- 
tive section-rooms, the result of their discoveries, or 
unfolding their theories with earnest and varying elo- 
quence. Here, also, we saw, for the first time, a gath- 
ering of the nobility of Scotland, and occasionally heard 
speeches from the Marquis of Bredalbane, the Presi- 
dent of the Society ; from Lord Sandon, Lord Mount- 
eagle, and others. The collateral interests of morality 
and benevolence were not overlooked by science, in 
this her proud festival ; and on the subject of pauper- 
ism, and the best modes of affording it permanent 
relief, Dr. Chalmers repeatedly spoke with his charac- 
teristic fulness and power. He has none of the grace- 



96 NORMAL SEMINARY. 

fulness of the practised orator, and his countenance 
is heavy, until irradiated by his subject. Then mind 
triumphs over matter, and makes the broad Scotch a 
pliant vehicle to eloquent thought. He recommended 
the principle of calling forth the energies of the poor 
for their own amelioration, without the application of 
any disturbing force ; that they should be assisted to 
elevate themselves, rather than be at once paralyzed 
and degraded, by casting their households on that 
stinted bounty whose root is taxation. To enforce his 
theory, he went into many details of great minuteness 
and simplicity, advising, among other things, the 
keeping of simple sewing-schools by ladies, two hours 
of two days in the week, for the indigent female chil- 
dren in their neighborhood ; and frequent visits, on the 
part of philanthropists and Christians, to the abodes 
of ignorance and vice, that the kindly sympathies thus 
mutually awakened, might be enlisted in the great 
work of reformation. He was opposed by the classic 
Alison, who admitted the beauty of his theory, but, by 
arguments drawn from the fallen nature of man, and 
the artificial structure of society, denied its feasibility. 

Among the objects of interest in Glasgow, to those 
who realize the importance of a right education to a 
manufacturing community, is the Normal Seminary. 
Its design is to train teachers, by bringing them in 
continual contact with the young mind, according to 
the requisitions of what would seem a correct and effi- 
cient system. Multitudes of children are gathered in 
a large building, judiciously divided into class-rooms, 



NORMAL INSTITUTION. 97 

galleries, and other accommodations for study and 
exercise, — among which are five play -grounds, with 
suitable apparatus. Here the teachers freely mingle 
w T ith their pupils, carefully superintending their modes 
of intercourse and the development of their disposi- 
tions and affections, in what they expressively call the 
" uncovered school-room." I was delighted with their 
bright countenances, and the promptness and naivete 
which marked the replies of some of the youngest 
classes, to the questions of their teachers. The infant 
department comprises all under six years of age, and 
the juvenile, all from six to fourteen. There is also 
a school of industry for girls from ten years old and 
upwards, where the various uses of the needle, so 
inseparably connected with domestic comfort, are ad- 
mirably taught. Moral, physical, and religious culture 
are strenuously combined with the intellectual, in the 
system here established, and a spirit of happiness and 
order seemed to reign, unmarked by the severity of 
discipline. The Rev. Mr. Cunningham, formerly a 
professor in one of the Colleges of the United States, 
is the respected Rector of the Institution ; and it owes 
much to the munificent patronage of David Stow, Esq., 
author of a volume entitled " The Training System," 
which contains an exposition of the plan here pursued, 
and valuable hints on elementary education in general. 
The teachers, who have issued from this Normal 
Seminary, will have the opportunity of widely exem- 
plifying its system ; for they are found not only in 
different counties of Scotland, England, and Ireland, 
7 



98 RECOLLECTIONS OF A SERMON. 

but in the West Indies, British America, and the far 
regions of Australia. Who can compute the benefit 
that may result from their labors, each in his own 
separate circle lighting the lamp of knowledge, and 
scattering the seeds of heaven ? Or who fully estimate 
the value of those charities, which aid in rightly edu- 
cating the unformed mind, except that Being who gave 
it immortality ? 

Among the clergymen whom we heard in Glasgow, 
was Mr. Robert Montgomery, the poet, sometimes 
mistaken for Mr. James Montgomery, to whom he is 
not related ; and Mr. McMorland, who, on the subject 
of Heaven's discipline, and its intended good, spake 
like one who had himself borne that test. 

His text was Revelations 3d and 19th: — " As many 
as I love, I rebuke and chasten : be zealous, therefore, 
and repent." 

Afflictive dispensations are not always viewed in 
accordance with their design. There is an obduracy 
which resists both. One of the prophets speaks of 
those who "set their faces as a flint." But when the 
sorrow that presses out the bitter tears from the heart, 
comes upon us, and we inquire, why is this from God's 
mercy? behold, a letter in His handwriting, which 
solves the doubt, — " As many as I love I rebuke and 
chasten." 

Christian ! dost thou suffer from sickness ? from 
bereavement ? from domestic evils ? from disappoint- 
ment of cherished hopes ? or from the attainment of 
those hopes, and the discovery that they are but van- 






SOCIETY IN GLASGOW. 99 

ity ? Canst thou not meet them as proofs of sonship, — 
tests of the filial spirit, — marks of the wisdom of a 
Father, whose frowns are but the graver countenance 
of love ? 

Look into thy conduct; scrutinize its motives ; 
search after the intended lesson ; ask, " What wilt thou 
have me to do ? " " Be zealous and repent ; " for if 
one arrow is not enough, He hath a full quiver. If 
one plague fails of its effect, there are ten more. If 
one wave sufficeth not, thou mayest be made to walk 
" under the cloud, and through the sea," until thy soul 
shall say, in utter prostration, " all thy billows have 
gone over me, — I have sinned ; what shall I do, 
Thou Preserver of men ? " 

Something like the foregoing, was said, but it loses 
the earnest manner of the speaker. 

The society of Glasgow illustrates the truest warmth 
of Scottish hospitality. An unusual number of distin- 
guished personages were gathered within its precincts 
at this time. Among these, it was pleasant to meet 
Dr. Dick, the serene, scientific philosopher ; Rev. Dr. 
Duncan, author of " Philosophy of the Seasons," and 
other works, and his wife — the mother and writer 
of the Memoir of Mary Lundie Duncan — beautiful, 
like her lamented daughter, both in person and mind. 
Through the untiring attention of John Hotson, Esq., 
and his lady, we were taken to see whatever was most 
desirable in the city, and, among others, to that deeply 
interesting spot, The Necropolis. It is situated on a 
bold eminence of some two hundred feet, whose base is 



100 jews' burial ground. 

washed by a stream, and spanned by a graceful structure 
appropriately called the " Bridge of Sighs." On its 
apex is a lofty column, surmounted by a colossal statue 
of John Knox, and visible to a great distance. It was 
erected before the spot was consecrated to the purposes 
of general sepulture. 

It was a bright morning when we walked there, and 
the sun rested pleasantly upon the homes of the dead, 
the turrets of the grand old cathedral in its vicinity, and 
the noble city stretching itself beneath. That portion 
of the cemetery appropriated to the Jews was deeply 
buried in shades, and had an air of solemnity border- 
ing on desolation. Over the entrance was inscribed, 
" I heard a voice from Ramah ; lamentation, mourning, 
and woe ; Rachel weeping for her children, and refusing 
to be comforted, because they were not." 

On the shaft of a column, which is finished in imi- 
tation of Absalom's Pillar in the King's Dale at Jerusa- 
lem, are the stanzas from Byron's Hebrew Melodies, 
commencing, 

" Oh, weep for those, who wept by Babel's stream." 

How adapted to the dispersion and sorrow of the 
chosen, yet scattered people, is the close of that pathetic 
effusion : 

" Tribes of the wandering foot and weary breast, 
Where shall ye flee away and be at rest ? 
The wild dove bath her nest, the fox his caye, 
Mankind his country, Israel but a grave." 



THE NECROPOLIS AT GLASGOW. 101 

On the opposite side of the column is the magnifi- 
cent poetry of their own prophets. " There is hope 
in thine end, saith the Lord, that thy children shall 
come again unto their own border. How hath the Lord 
covered the daughter of Zion with a cloud in his anger, 
and cast down from heaven to the earth the beauty of 
Israel, and remembered not his footstool in the day of 
his anger. But though he cause grief, yet will he have 
compassion according to the multitude of his mercies. 
For he doth not afflict willingly, nor grieve the chil- 
dren of men." 



Come o'er the Bridge of Sighs, some twilight hour, 
When dimly gleams the fair Cathedral-tower, 
And lingering daybeams faintly serve to show 
The tombstones mouldering round its base below ; 
— Come o'er that bridge with me, and musing think 
What untold pangs have marked this streamlet's brink, 
What bitter tears distilled from hearts of woe, 
Since first its arches spanned the flood below. 
Here hath the mother from her bleeding breast 
Laid the young darling of her soul to rest ; 
Here the lorn child resigned the parent stay, 
To walk, despairing, on its orphan way ; 
Here the riven heart that fond companion brought 
By years cemented with its inmost thought ; 
Here the sad throng in long procession crept, 
To bear the sage, for whom a nation wept, 



102 THE NECROPOLIS AT GLASGOW. 

Or deep in dust the reverend pastor lay, 
Whose pure example taught to Heaven the way. 

Approach through winding paths yon terrace high, 

Whose statued column strikes the traveller's eye, 

Or rove from cell to cell, whose marble door 

The inhospitable tenants ope no more, 

Or on their tablets read the labored trace, 

That asks remembrance from a dying race, 

Or mark the flowers, whose lips with fragrance flow.- 

The sweetest tribute to the loved below. 

Poor child of Judah, exiled and oppressed, 
How wrapped in shades thy lowly spot of rest ! 
Type of thy fate, for whom no sunbeam falls 
In peace and power, on Zion's sacred walls ; 
But by strange streams thy silent harp is hung, 
And captive numbers tremble on thy tongue. 
Dark is yon gate, through which thy mourners pass 
To hide their idols 'neath the matted grass, 
And sad the dirge, no Saviour's name that knows 
To gild with glorious hope their last repose. 
Oh ! turn thine eye from Sinai's summit red, 
Our Elder Sister, fly its thunders dread ; 
List to the lay that flowed o'er Bethlehem's plain, 
When star and angel warned the shepherd train ; 
Thou lov'st our Father's Book, — its seers believe, 
To thy torn breast the Holy Cross receive, 



THE NECROPOLIS AT GLASGOW. 103 

Bind to the frowning Law the Gospel sweet, 
And cast thy burdens at Messiah's feet. 

But whether this secluded haunt we tread, 

Where Caledonia shrouds her cherished dead, 

Or where the Turk funereal cypress rears, 

Or the poor Cambrian plants his vale of tears, 

Or search Mount Auburn's consecrated glades, 

Mid lakes and groves and labyrinthine shades, 

Or Laurel Hill, where silver Schuylkill flows, 

Quiescent guarding while its guests repose, 

Or near the Lehigh's rippling margin roam, 

Where the Moravian finds his dead a home, 

In lowly grave, by clustering plants o'ergrown, 

That half conceals its horizontal stone, 

One voice, one language, speaks each sacred scene, 

Sepulchral vault, or simpler mound of green, 

One voice, one language, breathes with changeless 

power, 
Graved on the stone, or trembling in the flower. 

That voice is love for the pale clay, that shrined 
And fondly lodged the never-dying mind, 
Toiled for its welfare, with its burdens bent, 
Wept o'er its woes, and at its bidding went, 
Thrilled at its joys, with zeal obeyed its will, 
And 'neath the stifling clod remembers still. 
Though on the winds its severed atoms fly, 
It hoards the promise of the Archangel's cry, 



104 THE NECROPOLIS AT GLASGOW. 

Though slain, trusts on, though buried, hopes to rise, 

In ashes fans a fire that never dies, 

And with the resurrection's dawning light 

Shall burst its bonds, revivify, unite, 

Rush to its long lost friend, with stainless grace, 

And dwell forever in its pure embrace. 



LOCH LOMOND. 



"While down the lake's translucent tide 
With gently curving course we glide, 
Its silver ripples, faint and few, 
Alternate blend with belts of blue, 
As fleecy clouds, on pinions white, 
Careering fleck the welkin bright. 

But lo ! Ben Lomond's awful crown 
Through shrouding mists looks dimly down ; 
For though, perchance, his piercing eye 
Doth read the secrets of the sky, 
His haughty bosom scorns to show 
Those secrets to the world below. 

Close-woven shades, with varying grace, 
And crag and cavern mark his base, 
And trees, whose naked roots protrude 
From bed of rock and lichens rude ; 
And where, 'mid dizzier cliffs are seen 
Entangled thickets sparsely green, 
Methinks I trace, in outline drear, 
Old Fingal with his shadowy spear, 



106 LOCH LOMOND. 

His gray locks streaming to the gale, 
And followed by his squadrons pale. 

Yes, slender aid from Fancy's glass 
It needs, as round these shores we pass, 
Mid glen and thicket dark, to scan 
The wild MacGregor's stormy clan, 
Emerging, at their chieftain's call, 
To foray or to festival ; 
While nodding plumes and tartans bright 
Gleam wildly o'er each glancing height. 

But as the spectral vapors rolled 
Away in vestments dropped with gold, 
The healthier face of summer sky, 
With the shrill bagpipe's melody, 
Recall, o'er distant ocean's foam, 
The fondly treasured scenes of home ; 
And thoughts, on angel-pinions driven, 
Drop in the heart the seeds of heaven, 
Those winged seeds, whose fruit sublime 
Decays not with decaying time. 

The loving child, the favorite theme 
Of morning hour or midnight dream, 
The tender friend so lowly laid 
Mid our own church-yard's mournful shade. 
The smitten babe, who never more 
Must sport around its father's door, 
Return they not, as phantoms glide, 
And silent seat them at our side ? 



LOCH LOMOND. 107 

Like Highland maiden, sweetly fair, 
The snood and rosebud in her hair, 
Yon emerald isles, how calm they sleep 
On the pure bosom of the deep ; 
How bright they throw, with waking eye, 
Their lone charms on the passer-by ; 
The willow with its drooping stem, 
The thistle's hyacinthine gem, 
The feathery fern, the graceful deer, 
Quick starting as the strand we near, 
While, with closed wing and scream subdued, 
The Osprays nurse their kingly brood. 

High words of praise, the pulse that stir, 
Burst from each joyous voyager ; 
And Scotia's streams and mountains hoar, 
The wildness of her sterile shore, 
Her broken caverns, that prolong 
The echoes of her minstrel song, 
Methinks might catch the enthusiast-tone, 
That breathes amid these waters lone. 
Even I, from fair Columbia's shore, 
Whose lakes a mightier tribute pour, 
And bind with everlasting chain 
The unshorn forest to the main ; 
Superior's surge, like ocean proud, 
That leaps to lave the vexing cloud ; 
Huron, that rolls with gathering frown 
A world of waters darkly down ; 



108 LOCH LOMOND. 

And Erie, shuddering on his throne 
At strong Niagara's earthquake tone ; 
And bold Ontario, charged to keep 
The barrier 'tween them and the deep, 

Who oft in sounds of wrath and fear, 
And dark with cloud-wreathed diadem, 

Interpreteth to Ocean's ear 
Their language, and his will to them ; 
I, reared amid that western vale, 
Where nature works on broader scale, 
Still with admiring thought and free, 
Loch Lomond, love to gaze on thee, 
Reluctant from thy beauties part, 
And bless thee with a stranger's heart. 



CORRA LINN. 



Thou 'rt beautiful, sweet Corra Linn, 

In thy sequestered place, 
Thy plunge on plunge mid wreathing foam 

Abrupt, yet full of grace, 
Down, down, with bold and breathless speed, 

Into thy rock-sown bed, 
Bright sunbeams on thy glancing robes, 

Rude crags above thy head. 

Thy misty dew is on the trees,. 

And forth with gladness meet, 
They reach the infant leaf and bud, 

To take thy baptism sweet. 
No Clydesdale spears are flashing high, 

In foray wide and rude, 
But Corra's time-rocked castle sleeps 

In peaceful solitude. 

"What wouldst thou think, sweet Corra Linn, 
Shouldst thou Niagara spy, 



110 CORRA LINN. 

That mighty monarch of the West 

"With terror in his eye ? 
Thou 'dst fear him on his Ocean-throne, 

Like lion in his lair, 
Meek, snooded maiden, dowered with all 

That father Clyde can spare. 

For thou might'st perch, like hooded bird, 

Upon his giant hand, 
Nor 'mid his world of waters wake 

A ripple on his strand. 
He'd drink thee up, sweet Corra Linn, 

And thou, to crown the sip, 
Would scarce a wheen of bubbles make 

Upon his monstrous lip. 

Thy voice, that bids the foliage quake 

Around thy crystal brim, 
Would quaver, like the cricket's chirp, 

Mid his hoarse thunder-hymn. 
For, like a thing that scorns the earth, 

He rears his awful crest, 
And takes the rainbow from the skies, 

And folds it round his breast. 

Thou 'rt passing fair, sweet Corra Linn, 
And he, who sees thee leap 

Into the bosom of the flood, 
Might o'er thy beauty weep. 



CORRA LINN. Ill 

But lone Niagara still cloth speak 

Of God, both night and day, 
And force from each terrestrial thought 

The gazer's soul away. 



EDINBURGH. 



The beauty of Edinburgh, in itself, and in its envi- 
rons, and the intellectual atmosphere that enwraps it, 
are eulogized by all. We entered it with high antici- 
pations, yet they were more than realized. Every day 
revealed something new, and supplied an unwearied 
strength to visit and to admire. 

It seems, more than other cities, to fasten on the im- 
agination, from the nature of its scenery, the strange 
events which History has embodied here, and the high 
native genius which has immortalized all. The con- 
trast between the Old and New Town is most striking ; 
one so fresh, bold, and beautiful, the other with its 
dark, stifling wynds and closes, its gloomy, twelve- 
storied houses, quaking to their very foundations at 
their own loftiness, the abode of mysterious legends, or 
spectral imagery. To pass from the classic domes on 
Calton Hill, or the princely mansions in Moray Place, 
and look into the abysses of the Cowgate and Canon- 
gate, just when the earliest glimmering lamps begin to 
make visible their filth, poverty, and misery, is like a 
sudden rush from the Elysian fields to the dominions 
of Pluto. 



THE PAST AND PRESENT. 113 

The past stands forth with peculiar distinctness in 
Edinburgh. It has been so well defined by her his- 
torians, that it mingles with the current of passing 
things. You can scarcely disentangle, from the web 
of the present, the associations that throng around you, 
while standing on the radiated spot in the pavement 
where the " old cross of Dun-Edin " once reared 
itself; walking in the purlieus of the Grass-Market, so 
often saturate with noble blood ; or musing amid the 
corridors and carved ceilings of the Old Parliament- 
House, you pause at the trap-door, which from the 
" lock-up-house," eighty feet beneath, gave entrance to 
the haggard prisoners into the criminal court, and im- 
agine the tide of agonizing emotions, which from age 
to age that narrow space has witnessed. A similar 
dreaminess and absorption in the past, steal over you, 
when, in the rock-ribbed Castle, you gaze on the ancient 
regalia, so bright, yet now so obsolete ; or while explor- 
ing the Register-Office, with its strong stone arches, 
enter the circular room, with its richly carved and sky- 
lighted dome, where repose, in state, the many massy 
volumes of Scotland's annals ; or see, in other apart- 
ments, the decrees and signatures of her kings, for 
seven hundred years ; the illuminated folio, where the 
articles of Union, in the reign of Queen Anne, were 
inscribed ; and the repository of the crests, autographs, 
and seals of the ancient nobles and Highland chieftains, 
many of whose hands were less familiar with the pen 
than with the good claymore. In the archives of the 
Antiquarian Society, which are kept in a noble build- 
8 



114 OBJECTS OF INTEREST. 

ing, on the plan of the Parthenon, there seems a sort 
of blending of antique with modern recollections, as you 
examine coats of mail, warriors' boots of amazing 
weight and capacity, — the terrible two-handed sword, — 
the cumbrous and cruel instrument of death, strangely 
called " The Maiden," — the pulpit of John Knox, and 
the joint-stool hurled by Jane Geddes at the head of 
the Dean of Peterborough, who, she said, was " preach- 
ing popery in her lugs," when he essayed to read 
the Liturgy, commanded to be used in the churches by 
Charles the First. 

I have hinted that an unusual perseverance animated 
us in our explorations of Edinburgh. We seemed 
neither to feel fatigue, nor to fear satiety. The acme 
of a traveller's zeal came over us there. It was like 
a first love, rendered more unquenchable by the re- 
straints and apprehensions of the voyage, from which 
we had recently escaped. The magnificent prospect 
from Arthur's Seat, the cold trickling waters of St. 
Anthony's fountain, the rugged cairn of Nichol Mus- 
kat, and the birthplace of the magician who described 
it, the sweet scenery of Randolph's cliff, the squares, 
the statues, the drives in the suburbs, the noble Uni- 
versity, the princely libraries, the model schools, the 
hospitals, the churches, even the shops of the lapida- 
ries, where the Scottish pebble is made to take its 
place among gems, the club-rooms, in whose luxurious 
arrangement men may sometimes overlook the humbler 
" blink of their ain fireside," the publishing houses, from 
whence the influence of genius and learning hath gone 



BLACKWOOD AND CHAMBERS. 115 

forth over Europe and the world ; these and many 
other localities, which the time would fail to specify, 
were visited with eagerness, either on their own 
account, or because they appertained to this modern 
Athens. 

It was interesting to visit the establishments of 
Blackwood, the Edinburgh Magazine, and the brothers 
Chambers, from whence intellectual light has so long 
radiated to our own side of the Atlantic ; and also to 
see, at CadelPs, many manuscript works of Walter 
Scott, which had been there published, neatly bound, 
and sheltered under glass cases, and written with such 
surprising correctness, that for a succession of pages 
scarcely a single erasure or alteration would occur. 

As our visit to Edinburgh took place during a vaca- 
tion in the University, we were deprived of the privi- 
lege of seeing several distinguished personages, who 
were absent from the city. Still, we were sensible of 
no deficiency, for every day brought its fulness of sat- 
isfaction. Here we were first initiated into the pleasure 
of the Scottish social breakfasts. They are managed 
with great ease, yet sufficiently significant of attention 
to the stranger-guest ; and, avoiding the formality and 
expenditure both of time and money attendant on din- 
ner-parties, better subserve the purposes of friendly 
intercourse. Sometimes they were preceded by the 
morning religious services of the family. On one 
such occasion, at the house of a venerable clergy- 
man, the Rev. Mr. Innes, in a few brief remarks on 
the chapter which speaks of the loss of the soul, intro- 



116 st. john's chapel. 

duced two forcible quotations, the closing one of which 
was from Robert Hall : " How bitter to think and to 
feel, when thought and feeling are agony, — to shrink 
from the relentless tempest, and find all shelter hope- 
less ; how fearful to have committed a mistake which is 
both infinite and irreparable, — a mistake which it will 
take an eternity to deplore, an eternity to compre- 
hend." 

At St. John's Chapel, we heard, with pleasure, the 
Dean of Edinburgh, and admired a large window of 
stained glass, in whose gorgeous colors the twelve apos- 
tles were depicted. But to particularize the objects 
that delighted us would require a separate volume. 
Scotland illustrates in this, her favorite city, both her 
intellectual riches and the frankness with which she 
receives the stranger into her heart of hearts. 

Towards me, the last named amiable feeling was 
deepened, by sudden illness, into Christian sympathy. 
An affection of the throat, almost amounting to croup, 
was occasioned by climbing Salisbury's Cliff, in a wind 
strong enough to have swept less material objects into 
the Frith of Forth. The care, the nursing-kindness 
then so tenderly exercised for me, can never be forgot- 
ten. Nor was it without surprise, that I, who had 
pertinaciously maintained a sort of concealed home- 
sickness amid all outward delights, found my eyes 
blinded with tears, at bidding farewell to Edinburgh. 

Fair Queen of Caledon, thou sitt'st 
Majestic and alone, 



FAREWELL TO EDINBURGH. 117 

The strong arm of the rugged sea 

A girdle round thee thrown, 
The gorgeous thistle in thy hand, 

That drinks the sunny ray, 
While graceful on the northern breeze 

Thine unbound tresses play. 

In casket of the massy rock, 

Within yon castled height, 
Thou lay'st thy rich regalia by, 

Dear to thy heart, and bright, 
And clasping Albion's proffered hand, 

A tear-drop in thine een, 
All nobly by her side doth stand, 

Though crownless, yet a queen. 

I said thou bad'st in castled nook 

Thy loved regalia rest, 
And changed it for the olive branch, 

That shadoweth brow and breast, 
For this no more in contest rude, 

Or challenge mad with haste, 
Or savage shock of border wars, 

Thy sons their blood shall waste ; 

No more, as erst, stern watch and ward 

Upon yon hill-tops hold, 
Where now the shepherd's voice at eve 

Doth warn his flocks afold, 



118 FAREWELL TO EDINBURGH. 

But freely pour a glowing soul 

To thrill the tuneful lyre, 
And mark on Calton's beauteous brow 

Athenian domes aspire ; 

And thou, with kindly guiding hand, 

May'st help the pilgrim wight, 
Who breathless climbs to seek a seat 

On Arthur's towering height, 
Or taste from old St. Antoine's well 

Cold water sparkling free, 
Or o'er that ruined chapel pore, 

Queen Margaret gave to thee. 

St. Giles, like time-tried sentinel, 

Uplifts his cross on high, 
And stirs his ancient might to guard 

Thy pristine majesty ; 
And Learning reareth massive walls 

Thy fairest haunts among, 
While, as a charmed child, the world 

Doth list thy magic song. 

Yet settling o'er thy brow I see 
A tinge of mournful thought, 

For Autumn blights the heather-flower, 
That generous Summer brought ; 

And though I seek a greener clime, 
Where tiowers are fair to see, 



FAREWELL TO EDINBURGH. 119 

Still, still, sweet Queen of Caledon, 
My spirit turns to thee. 

There may, indeed, be richer realms, 

Where pride and splendor roll, 
But thou art skilled to soothe the pang 

That rives the stranger's soul ; 
There may, perchance, be those who say 

Thy mountain-land is drear, 
Yet thou hast still the wealth that wins 
• The stranger's grateful tear : 

And when, my weary wanderings o'er, 

I seek my native land, 
And by mine ingle-side once more 

Do clasp the kindred hand, 
And when my listening children ask 

For tales of land and sea, 
Their hands a wreath of love shall twine, 

Edina, dear, for thee. 



MELROSE AND ABBOTSFORD. 



The village of Melrose nestles at the foot of the 
protecting Eildon Hills. It has little power to interest 
the traveller, save through its famous old Abbey. In 
this it is impossible to be disappointed, whether it is 
seen by the " pale moonlight," or not. The style of 
its architecture, its clustered columns, its niches filled 
with statues, its exquisite carvings, from whence the 
leaflets, flowers, and fruits stand out with great bold- 
ness and a delicate truth to nature, prove that the orna- 
mental parts must have been executed several centu- 
ries later than its erection under David the First. 
Every visitant must admire, on the capital of a column, 
from whence the roof which it once supported has 
mouldered away, a carved hand, in exceedingly bold 
relief, clasping a garland of roses. It was pleasant 
to see, in a partially enclosed courtyard, a few sheep 
cropping the herbage that crept up among the stones 
and between the fragments of fallen pillars. It 
reminded us of the flocks that some tourist has de- 
scribed, as feeding so quietly amid the ruins of the 
circus of Caracalla, at Rome. 



JOHN BOWER. 121 

Our guide through Melrose was Mr. John Bower, 
quite an original character, and somewhat of an artist, 
who interspersed his services with anecdotes, to which 
his broad Scotch dialect imparted additional interest. 
He is the same person whom Washington Irving 
characterizes as " the showman of Melrose. He was 
loud in his praises of the affability of Sir Walter Scott, 
giving life to his narrations by using the present tense. 
i He '11 come here sometimes,' said he, ' with great 
folks in his company, and the first I' 11 know of it is 
hearing his voice calling out Johnny ! Johnny Bower ! 
and when I go out, I 'm sure to be greeted with a 
joke or a pleasant word. He '11 stand and crack and 
laugh wi' me, just like an auld wife, and to think that 
of a man that has sich an awfu' knowledge o' history.' " 

Johnny Bower spoke with enthusiasm of his favorite 
hero, and requested us to sit on the stone seat, where 
he used to rest, when fatigued with walking about on 
his lame limb, to exhibit the favorite abbey to his 
numerous 'guests. "It was all a trick," said he, "the 
getting him to be buried at Dryburgh. This was the 
place. Everybody knows that he cam here sax times 
and mair to his ance visiting the Dryburgh ruin." 

On pointing out the marble slab, which covers the 
dust of Alexander the Second, some remark was made 
about the period of his accession, to which Johnny 
Bower, as he called himself, responded in two lines 
from Marmion : — 



" A clerk might tell what years have flown 
Since Alexander filled the throne." 



122 INTERIOR OF ABBOTSFORD. 

Large portions of the "Lay of the Last Minstrel" 
were familiar to him, which he recited when any sur- 
rounding object recalled them. Directing our atten- 
tion to a rough, red stone in the wall, on which were 
the words, " Here lye the race of the house of Year," 
or Carr, the present Dukes of Roxburgh, he told us 
that our " great countryman, "Washington Irving, said, 
' there was a haill sarmon on the vanity of pomp in 
that single line.' " After his agency as our guide had 
terminated, we were invited to his apartments, where 
we saw his wife, and a variety of drawings and casts 
from Melrose, several of which he had himself exe- 
cuted ; and were pleased to have an opportunity of 
purchasing of him some engravings. 

When we visited Abbotsford, it was rich with a pro- 
fusion of roses and ripening fruits. Embosomed in 
shades, it presents an irregular assemblage of turret, 
parapet and balcony. The principal hall is hung with 
armor, and the emblazoned shields of border chieftains. 
It is about forty feet in length, and paved frith black 
and white marble. It leads to a room of smaller 
dimensions, called the armory, where are multitudes of 
antique implements of destruction, and curiosities from 
various climes. Scott's antiquarian tastes are inwrought 
with the structure of the building. Here and there is 
a pannel, richly carved from the oak of Holyrood, or 
the old palace of Dunfermline. We were also shown 
a chimneypiece from Melrose, and told that there was 
a roof from Roslin Chapel, and a gate from Linlithgow. 
In the drawing-room, dining-room, and breakfast par- 



LIBRARY AND STUDY. 123 

lor, are many pictures, and gifts from persons of dis- 
tinction. There are also an ebony writing-desk pre- 
sented by George the Third, chairs by George the 
Fourth and the Pope, and ornaments in Italian marble 
by Lord Byron. 

The magnificence of the library strikes every eye. 
It is sixty feet by fifty, and contains more than twenty 
thousand volumes, beautifully arranged. It has a bold 
projecting window, commanding a lovely view of rural 
scenery and the classic Tweed. Shakspeare's bust, 
and one of Scott, by Chantry, and a full-length portrait 
of his eldest son, in military costume, are among the 
ornaments of this noble apartment. It is a pleasing 
instance of the filial piety of this only surviving 
son, that every article throughout the mansion re- 
mains, by his orders, in exactly the same situation in 
which it was left by his father. The books, the anti- 
quarian relics, all retain the places given them by him, 
and the last suit of clothes that he wore is preserved 
under a glass case in his closet. 

But it was in the smaller room, used as a study, that 
one most feelingly realizes the truth, that 

" Hushed is the harp, the minstrel gone ! " 

Lighted by a single window, its furniture is ex- 
tremely simple. I think there was but one chair in 
it, beside that which he was accustomed to occupy. 
Here was the working-spot, where, dismissing all ex- 
traneous objects, he bent his mind to its mighty tasks. 



124 EXTRACT FROM LOCKHART. 

We were told that the lamp over the mantel-piece, by 
which he wrote, he was in the habit of lighting him- 
self. It was still partially filled with oil. But the eye 
that drew light from it, and threw the mental ray 
to distant regions, is shrouded in the darkness of the 
grave. 

It was in this apartment that, after his mind had 
received its fatal shock from disease, he made his last 
ineffectual effort to write. The sad scene can never be 
as well described, as in the words of Lockhart. 

" He repeated his desire so earnestly to be taken to 
his own room, that we could not refuse. His daugh- 
ters went into his study, opened his writing-desk, and 
laid paper and pens in the usual order. I then moved 
him through the hall into the spot where he had 
always been accustomed to work. When the chair 
was placed at the desk, and he found himself in the old 
position, he smiled and thanked us, and said, * Now 
give me my pen, and leave me for a little to myself.' 
Sophia put the pen into his hand, and he endeavored 
to close his fingers upon it. But they refused their 
office, and it dropped upon the paper. He sunk back 
among his pillows, silent tears rolling down his cheeks. 
But composing himself by and by, he motioned to me 
to wheel him out of doors again. After a little while 
he dropt into a slumber. On his awaking, Laidlaw 
said to me, ' Sir Walter has had a little repose.' ' No, 
Willie,' he replied, ' no repose for Sir Walter but in 
the crave.' " 



CONTRASTS. 125 

After walking about the grounds of Abbotsford, we 
found, in a small, smoky hut, the widow of Purdie, so 
long Scott's forester, and confidential servant. She told 
us stories of the laird, with zeal and pleasure. Her 
wrinkled face lighted up as she spoke of the days of 
his prosperity, when his house overflowed with guests. 
She dwelt, mournfully, upon his kind farewell at her 
door, when he left for his continental tour, and the 
sad change in his appearance after his return. We 
were the more pleased to listen to her tales, and see 
her honest sympathy, from having just been annoyed 
by a different demeanor in the person appointed to 
show the apartments at Abbotsford. We had been 
forewarned by Johnny Bovver that we should be waited 
upon by an English woman, who felt little interest in 
Sir Walter, whom she had never seen, and who would 
try to hurry us through our researches. " But ne'er 
ye mind thaut," said he, " staund firm." Yet we did 
not find it quite so easy to " staund firm" driven as 
we were from room to room, our questions answered in 
a most laconic style, and the explanations that we 
desired, denied. The cause of this singular want of 
attention might have been the discovery of another 
party upon the grounds, whose expected fee she was 
probably impatient to add to our own. It is surely 
desirable that a spot like Abbotsford, one of the " Mec- 
ca-shrines " of Scotland, should be exhibited to pilgrims 
either by a native of its clime, or at least by one not 
deficient in the common courtesy of a guide. 



126 TOM PURDIE. 

A picture of Tom Purdie, the faithful servant, hangs 
in the dining-room at Abbotsford, in the vicinity of 
dukes and princes. Near the Abbey of Melrose is his 
grave and monument, with this inscription, from the 
pen of his beloved master : 

In grateful remembrance 

of the faithful and attached sen-ices 

of twenty- two years, 

and in sorrow for the loss of a humble, but sincere friend, 

this stone was erected by 

Sir Walter Scott, of Abbotsford. 



Here lies the body of Thomas Purdie, 

"Wood-Forester, at Abbotsford, 

who died 29th of October, 1829, aged sixty-two years. 



" Thou hast been faithful over a few things ; 
I will make thee ruler over many things." 

Matt. xxv. 21, 



Dryburgh is among the most beautiful of the ancient 
abbeys of Scotland. The effect of its ruins is height- 
ened by their standing forth in solitary prominence, 
amidst a charming landscape. The Tweed sweeps 
around them like a crescent, and the lofty back -ground 
is shrouded in rich foliage, where the oak, the beech, 
and the mournful yew predominate. Among other 






GRAVE OF SCOTT. 127 

noble and striking points of the structure, the windows 
are conspicuous. One large one, in the southern part 
of the transept, divided by four mullions, rises to a lofty- 
height, and is seen majestically in the distance ; another, 
of a circular form, in the western gable of what was 
formerly the refectory, with the dark foliage waving 
through it, is singularly picturesque. 

Several stone coffins, or sarcophagi, of apparently 
great antiquity, have been discovered in these pre- 
cincts, and are shown with their venerable coating of 
green moss and mould. In the place appropriated to 
the burial of the Erskines, or Earls of Mar, we observed 
an inscription bearing date in 1168, and another com- 
memorating the youngest of the thirty-three children 
of Ralph Erskine. In the chapter-house, which resem- 
bles a spacious cellar, we were surprised by a vast 
assemblage of figures and busts, in plaster of Paris. 
They seemed a deputation from every age and clime. 
We could scarcely have anticipated, in a ruinous vault 
of Teviotdale, thus to meet Socrates and Cicero and 
Julius Cossar, Shakspeare and Locke and Brutus, the 
Abbot of Melrose, with his pastoral staff, John Knox, 
Charles Fox and the Ettrick Shepherd, Count Rum- 
ford and Benjamin Franklin and Watt of Birmingham, 
a strangely assorted and goodly company. 

But the visitant of Dryburgh goes first and last to 
the grave, where, on September 26, 1832, Sir Walter 
Scott was laid with the Haliburtons, his maternal an- 
cestors. Around it are gathered many of the objects 
that in life he loved. Luxuriant vines, with their 



128 ABBOTSFOED. 

clasping tendrils, — the overhanging ivy, — the melan- 
choly cypress, — the mellow song of birds, — the distant 
voice of Tweed, — Gothic arches with their solemn 
shadow, and kindred dust reposing near, hallow the 
poet's tomb. 

Master of Abbotsford ! 

Magician strange and strong ! 
Whose voice of power is heard 

By an admiring throng, 
From court to peasant's cot, — 

"We come, but thou art gone, 
We speak, thou answerest not, — 

Thy work is done. 

Thou slumberest with the noble dead, 

In Dryburgh's solemn pile, 
Amid the peer and warrior bold, 
And mitered abbots stern and old, 

Who sleep in sculptured aisle, 
While Scotia's skies, with azure gleaming, 
Are through the oriel window streaming, 

Where ivied mosses creep ; 
And clothed in symmetry sublime, 

The moss-clad towers that mock at time, 
Their mouldering legends keep. 

And yet, methinks, Melrose had spread 
Above her honor'd minstrel's head, 



ABBOTSFORD. 129 

Most fitting couch of holy rest, 
And fondest lulled him on her breast, 
Where burst his first, most ardent song, 
Tweed's murmuring tides and depths along, 
While the young moonbeams quivering faint 
O'er mural tablet sculptured quaint, 

Reveal a lordly race, — 
And knots of roses richly wrought, 
And tracery light as poet's thought, 

The clustered columns grace. 
There good king David's rugged mien 
Fast by his faithful spouse is seen, 

And 'neath the stony floor 
Lie chiefs of Douglas' haughty breast, 
Contented now to take their rest, 

And rule their kings no more. 
There, if we heed thy witching strain, 
The fearless knight of Deloraine 
Achieved his purpose, strange and bold, 
At rifled tomb and midnight cold ; 
And there amid the roofless wall, 
Where blended shower and sunlight fall, 
With stealthy step and half afraid, 
Still crops the lamb the scanty blade ; 
While near is seen the seat of stone, 

Whereon thou oft wouldst rest 
When thou hadst tower and transept shown 

To many a grateful guest, 
And voices still of friendly tone 

Speak out, and call thee blest. 



130 ABBOTSFORD. 

'T was but a mournful sight to see 

Trim Abbotsford so gay, 
The rose-trees flaunting there so bold, 
The ripening fruits in rind of gold, 

And thou, their lord, away. 
There stood the lamp, with oil unspent, 
O'er which thy thoughtful brow was bent, 

"When erst with magic skill 
Unearthly beings heard thy call, 
And buried ages thronged the hall, 

Obedient to thy will. 
This fair domain was all thine own, 
From towering rock to threshold stone ; 

Yet didst thou lavish pay 
The coin that caused life's wheels to stop, 
The heart's blood oozing, drop by drop, 

Through the tired brain away ? 

I said thy lamp unspent was there, 
Thy books arranged in order fair, 
But none of all thy kindred race 
Found in those lordly halls a place. 
Thine only son in foreign lands 
Led bravely on his martial bands, 
And stranger lips, unmoved and cold, 
The legends of thy mansion told, — 
They lauded glittering brand and spear, 
And costly gift from prince and peer, 
And broad claymore, with silver dight, 



ABBOTSFORD. 131 

And hunting-born of border knigbt, 

Wbat were such gauds to me ? 
More dear had been one single word, 
From those whose veins thy blood had stirred 

To Scotia's accents free. 

Yet one-there was in humble cell, 

One poor retainer, lone and old, 
"Who of thy youth remembered well, 

And many a treasured story told ; 
While pride upon her wrinkled face 

Mixed strangely with the trickling tear, 
As memory from its choicest place 
Brought forth, in wildly varied trace, 

Thy boyhood's gambols dear ; 
Or pointed out, with withered hand, 
Where erst thy garden-seat did stand, 
When thou, returned from travel vain, 
Wrapped in thy plaid, and pale with pain, 

Didst gaze with vacant eye, 
For stern disease had drained the fount 

Of mental vision dry. 

Ah ! what avails with giant power 
To wrest the trophies of an hour ; 
One moment write with flashing eye 
Our name on castled turrets high, 
And yield, the next, a broken trust, 
To earth, to ashes, and to dust. 



132 ABBOTSFORD. 

Master of Abbotsford 
No more thou art ! 
But prouder trace and mightier word, 
Than palace-dome or arch sublime 
Have ever won from wrecking time, 
Do keep thy record in the heart. 
Thou, who with tireless hand didst sweep 
Away the damps of ages deep, 
And fire with wild baronial strain 
The harp of chivalry again, 
And bid its long-forgotten swell 
Thrill through the soul, farewell ! farewell ! 

Thou, who didst make from shore to shore 
Bleak Caledonia's mountains hoar, 
Her clear lakes bosomed in their shade, 
Her sheepfolds scattered o'er the glade, 
Her rills with music leaping down, 
The perfume of her heather brown, 
Familiar, as their native glen, 
To differing tribes of distant men, 
Patriot and bard ! Edina's care 
Shall keep thine image fresh and fair, 
Embalming to remotest time 
The Shakspeare of her tuneful clime. 



* 



HUNTLEY-BURN. 



Huntley-Burn is a romantic stream issuing from 
a small lake, or tarn, on the estate at Abbotsford, and 
running a course of the wildest beauty, during which 
it falls over a steep bank into a natural basin, over- 
hung with the mountain ash. It passes through a spot 
called the Rhymer's Glen, where, according to tra- 
dition, " Tarn the Rhymour" used to hold intercourse 
with the Fairy Queen. It is in the vicinity of some 
of the plantings of Sir Walter Scott, and a place 
where he loved to wander by himself and with his 
guests. It was also still more endeared to him by the 
neighboring residence of the Ferguson family, with 
whom his own were in habits of delightful intimacy. 
To their hospitable roof he used to resort, when wea- 
ried with an irruption of visitants, or that vapid flat- 
tery, with which the heartless thought to compensate 
for their intrusions on his valuable time, which he 
occasionally complained to his friends was " pecked 
away by teaspoonfuls." 

Mention is made of the death of one of the young 
ladies of the family at Huntley-Burn, in a touching 



134 % lockhart's tribute. 

tribute of Lockhart to his departed wife, in the third 
volume of that interesting memorial of her father, 
which his powerful pen has completed for posterity. 

" She, whom I may now sadly record as, next to Sir 
Walter himself, the chief ornament and delight of all 
our social meetings, — she, to whose love I owed my own 
place in them — Scott's eldest daughter, — the one of all 
his children, who in countenance, mind, and manners 
most resembled him, and who indeed was as like him in 
all things, as a gentle, innocent woman can ever be to a 
great man, deeply tried and skilled in the struggles and 
perplexities of active life, — she too is no more ; and the 
very hour that saw her laid in her grave, her dearest 
friend, Margaret Ferguson, breathed her last also." 

This fair cascade of Huntley-Burn was to me more 
interesting, from bearing the name of my paternal an- 
cestors, who were of Scottish descent ; and its wild glen 
and romantic scenery inspired pleasant musings, and 
cherished recollections. 



Imp of the Cauldsbiel's shaded tarn, 

Whence hast thou such a sparkling eye ? 

Such pleasant voice, thy tales to tell ? 
Such foot of silver dancing by ? 

Like merry child of sombre sire, 

Thou charm'st the glen with playful wile, 
'Till the dark boughs that o'er thee droop. 

Imbibe the magic of thy smile. 



HUNTLEY-BURN. 135 

Thou wert of him a favor'd sprite, 
"Who left to Abbotsford a name ; 

And to each zone of earth bequeathed 
Some planted scion of his fame : 

Thou brought'st him fancy's food at twilight dim, 
And now to us dost give memorials sweet of him. 



SHEEP AMONG THE CHEVIOTS. 



The Cheviots, which are represented in some of the 
ancient ballads, as green with waving woods, seem now 
to be a chain of bald hills, much devoted to the pastur- 
age of flocks. Around their base the little circular 
cotes or folds are scattered. In some parts of this 
region, the sheep are celebrated for the productiveness 
of their fleece, and discussions respecting their different 
races and comparative merits, are earnestly pursued by 
the neighboring farmers. 

Sir Walter Scott, soon after removing to his rural 
residence at Ashestiel, writes : " For more than a 
month my head has been fairly tenanted by ideas, 
neither literary nor poetical. Long sheep and short 
sheep, and such kind of matters, have made a perfect 
sheepfold of my understanding." The Ettrick shep- 
herd relates an apposite anecdote of one of his inter- 
views with him in 1801. " During the sociality of the 
evening, the discourse ran much on the different breeds 
of sheep. The original black-faced Forest breed being 
always called the short sheep, and the Cheviot race 
the long sheep, disputes at that period ran very high 



LONG AND SHORT SHEEP. 137 

about the practicable profits of each. Scott, who had 
come into our remote district only to collect fragments 
of legendary lore, was bored with everlasting discus- 
sion about long and short sheep. At length, putting 
on a serious, calculating face, he asked Mr. "Walter 
Bryden, " How long must a sheep actually measure, to 
come under the denomination of a long sheep ? ' He, 
not perceiving the quiz, fell to answer with great sim- 
plicity, * It 's the woo' (wool) it 's the woo' that makes 
the difference. The lang sheep ha'e the short woo', 
and the short sheep ha'e the lang woo' ; and these are 
only jist kind o' names we gie 'em.' Scott found it 
impossible to preserve his gravity, and this incident is 
skilfully wrought into his story of the ' Black Dwarf. ' " 
"We sometimes observed the flocks to stop grazing, 
and regard passing travellers with fixed attention. 
Whether they gazed from idle curiosity, or from that 
love of knowledge which is common to their Scottish 
masters, or were a peculiarly contemplative species of 
sheep, — or, whether their rather scanty fare might 
not keep their mental perceptions in greater activity, 
we failed perfectly to understand. 



Graze on, graze on, there comes no sound 

Of border-warfare here, 
No slogan-cry of gathering clan, 

No battle-axe, or spear, 
No belted knight in armor bright, 

"With glance of kindled ire, 



138 SHEEP AMONG THE CHEVIOTS. 

Doth change the sports of Chevy-Chase 
To conflict stern and dire. 

Ye wist not that ye press the spot, 

Where Percy held his way 
Across the marches, in his pride, 

The " chiefest harts to slay ; " 
And where the stout Earl Douglas rode 

Upon his milk-white steed, 
With " fifteen hundred Scottish spears," 

To stay the invaders' deed. 

Ye wist not, that ye press the spot 

Where, with his eagle eye, 
King James, and all his gallant train, 

To Flodden Field swept by.* 
The queen was weeping in her bower, 

Amid her maids that day, 
And on her cradled nursling's face 

Those tears like pearl-drops lay. 

For madly 'gainst her native realm 

Her royal husband went, 
And led his flower of chivalry 

As to a tournament ; 

* The great battle of Flodden Field was fought September 
9, 1513, between Henry VIII. and James IV. of Scotland, — 
the latter having married Margaret, sister of the English king, 
and daughter of Henry VII. 



SHEEP AMONG THE CHEVIOTS. 139 

He led them on, in power and pride, 

But ere the fray was o'er, 
They on the blood-stained heather slept, 

And he returned no more. 

Graze on, graze on, there 's many a rill 

Bright-sparkling through the glade, 
Where ye may freely slake your thirst, 

With none to make afraid ; 
There 's many a wandering stream that flows 

From Cheviot's terraced side, 
Yet not one drop of warrior's gore 

Distains its crystal tide : 

For Scotia from her hills hath come, 

And Albion o'er the Tweed, 
To give the mountain breeze the feuds 

That made their noblest bleed, 
And, like two friends, around whose hearts 

Some dire estrangement run, 
Love all the better for the past, 

And sit them down as one. 



NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE. 



Here we are, once more in England. Some of the 
parting glimpses of Scottish scenery were beautiful, — 
as " blessings brighten when they take their flight." 
Of this order, were the Abbey and Castle of Kelso, 
which revealed themselves in an imposing manner, not 
easily to be forgotten. 

But truly, this hotel of the " Queen's Head," at 
Newcastle, has many comforts, peculiarly English. 
Opening out of the parlor, is the nicest recess, with a 
carved ceiling, lighted by two windows, where is a 
writing-table, and every imaginable convenience for 
entrapping thought into intercourse with the pen. My 
little ones must have a greeting from this pleasant 
haunt. 

Feeling the slight chill of an October morning, we 
ordered a fire in the adjoining room, when the servant, 
plunging a heated poker into the well-filled grate, ig- 
nited it instantly. Not being acquainted with the com- 
bustible quality of the coal in this region, we were 
surprised at the rapidity of the operation. The collie- 
ries here are extensively wrought, and boats, covering 



ROMAN VESTIGES. 141 

the Tyne, are loaded with their products, which, both in 
excellence and abundance, are remarkable. This fine 
river, about eight or ten miles above its confluence with 
the German Ocean, bears, on its north bank, Newcas- 
tle, and on its south, Gateshead, which being united by 
bridges, form an aggregate population of more than 
100,000. Beside the staple trade in coal, there are 
manufactories of iron, glass, and lead. A busy and 
thriving place, is this Northumbrian city. Portions of 
it are extremely well built, though strong contrasts 
exist between the old and modern divisions. The 
churches of All Saints and St. Nicholas are grand 
structures, and the spire of the last very lofty and beau- 
tiful. 

Newcastle, it is well known, was an ancient Roman 
station. The Emperor Adrian spanned the Tyne by 
a stone bridge, as early as 120; and soon after con- 
nected, by earthen rampart, the line of forts which had 
been erected, forty years before, by Julius Agricola?. 
Vestiges are still visible of the wall with which Seve- 
rus, in 207, strengthened the fortifications of Adrian ; 
and of a still more stupendous one erected by the com- 
bined action of Rome and Britain, to repel their perse- 
vering and incursive neighbors, the Scots and Picts. 

Our entrance to Newcastle-upon-Tyne, was during 
the shades of evening. Lights flickered here and 
there among the environs, gliding and disappearing, as 
if Will-of-the-Wisp was dancing among the coal-beds. 
At length we discovered those mystic torches marked 
an encampment of gipsies. Occasional spots of more 



142 GIPSIES. 

sustained brilliance, revealed preparations for their 
nightly repast. Children, with wild elf-locks, appeared 
and vanished. One or two of the young females, who 
came more distinctly within the range of our vision, 
exhibited striking features, and some of those graceful 
movements which Nature teaches. 

The number of this singular people is not great in 
England, though it is difficult correctly to compute it, 
from their roving and scarcely tangible modes of exist- 
ence. The men are sometimes seen vigorously labor- 
ing among the hay-makers and hop-gatherers, in the 
counties of Surry and Kent. 

Henry the Eighth, during whose reign the gipsies 
first appeared in Great Britain, enacted severe laws 
against them as vagrants, which were enforced by 
Elizabeth and Anne. In Scotland, they were in early 
times treated with more mildness, and the gude-wife, 
who gave them a night's hospitality, was often pleased 
to find that they remembered her afterwards by some 
slight gift, perhaps a horn spoon for her child. In the 
construction of this article, and of simple baskets, 
they are skilful, and likewise officiate as tinkers and 
rude musicians. Pilfering and palmistry are said to be 
indigenous among them ; yet, like our aboriginal Amer- 
icans, they have some strong traits of character, sus- 
ceptibilities both of revenge and of gratitude. Though 
their race have been for ages regarded with contempt 
or indifference, there have always been individuals to 
extend to them pity or kindness, and within the last 
twenty or thirty years, a few Christian philanthropists 



hoyland's benevolence. 143 

have been desirous to enlighten their ignorance, and 
ameliorate their condition. Among them, Mr. Hoy- 
land, of the Society of Friends, has been persevering 
in this mission of mercy. He has visited their en- 
campments, and sought to gain influence over them 
for good. A grayhaired woman of more than eighty 
years of age, told him she had many children, and 
nearly fifty grandchildren, not one of whom had ever 
been taught to read. He embodied the result of his 
observations in a volume published in 1816, which 
contains much interesting information, and is itself a 
monument of that true benevolence, which, in the 
despised homeless wanderers among the highways and 
hedges, recognizes the possessors of an immortal soul. 



Gipsy ! see, with fading light, 
How the camp-fire blazes bright, 
Where thy roving people steal 
Gladly to their evening meal. 
Tawny urchins, torn and bare, 
And the wrinkled crone is there, 
Who pretends, with scowling eye 
Into fate's decrees to pry, 
And the credulous to show 
Golden fortunes, free from woe. 

Why, beneath the hedge-row lone, 
Sit'st thou on that broken stone, 
Heedless of the whoop and call 
To their merry festival ? 



144 THE GIPSY MOTHER. 

Masses rich of raven hair 
Curtain o'er thy forehead rare, 
Thou 'It be missed amid their glee. 
Wherefore stay'st thou ? 
Ah ! I see 
On a babe thy dark eye resting, 
Closely in thy bosom nesting, 
And 't is sweeter far I know, 
Than at proudest feast to glow, 
Full contentment to dispense 
Thus to helpless innocence. 

Doth the presence of thy child 
Make thy flashing glance so mild ? 
Thou, who with thy vagrant race 
Reared mid tricks and follies base, 
Ne'er hast seen a heavenly ray 
Guiding toward the better way ? 
Feel'st thou now some latent thrill, 
Sorrowing o'er a life of ill ? 
Some incitement pure and good, 
Dim, and faintly understood ? 
Stranger ! 't is the prompting high 
Of a mother's ministry, 
Yield to that transforming love, 
May it lead thy soul above. 

Dost thou muse with downcast eye 
On thine infant's destiny ? 
Alien birth, and comrades vile, 
Harsh control, or hateful wile, 



THE GIPSY MOTHER. 145 

Till thy prescient heart forlorn 
Sickens at its lot of scorn ? 
One there is, to whom is known 
All a mother's secret moan, 
He, who heard the bitter sigh 
Of that lone one's agony, 
When the water-drop was spent, 
And no spreading branch or tent 
Sheltered from the burning sky, 
Where she laid her son to die. 

See ! an angel near her stand, 

And a fountain's silver track 
Murmuring mid the desert sand 

Call from death her darling back. 
Oh ! to Him who still doth deign 
Pity for their outcast pain, 
Whom proud man with haughty eye 
Scarce regards, and passes by ; 
Who amid the tempest-shock 
Roots the wild vine on the rock, 
And protects the bud to bless 
The untrodden wilderness, 
Lift thine eye with tear-drops dim, 
Cast thy bosom's fear on Him. 
He who heeds the ravens' cry 
In their hopeless misery, 
Deigns to feed them when they pine, 
Cares He not for thee and thine ? 



10 



146 THE GIPSY MOTHER. 

Gipsy Mother ! lone and drear, 

Sad I am to leave thee here, 

For the strong and sacred tie 

Of thy young maternity 

Links thee unto all who share 

In its comfort or its care, 

All who on their yearning breast 

Lull the nursling to its rest, 

And though poor and low thou art, 

Makes thee sister in their heart. 

Gipsy Mother ! strangely fair, 
God be with thee in thy care. 



YORK AND ITS MINSTER. 



On our route to York, about sixteen miles from 
Newcastle, we had opportunity to admire the rich 
meadows of Durham sleeping in the embrace of the 
Weare, and the lofty eminence crowned by its magnifi- 
cent cathedral and castle. The towering oaks of Dar- 
lington attracted our attention, as did also Hermitage- 
Castle, Thirlby-Iiouse, embosomed amid noble trees, 
and other edifices and townships, of which a traveller's 
haste permitted only a cursory examination. 

After crossing the Trent, which divides the county 
of Durham from Yorkshire, we observed a high state 
of tillage and fine breeds of cattle, with farm-houses of 
brick, roofed with red tile, — far less picturesque than 
the whitewashed cottage, with its embrasure of roses. 
The city of York is situated in a rich vale, of a penin- 
sular form, between the rivers Ouse and Fosse, and 
equidistant from the capital cities of Scotland and 
England. It is fortified, and tradition says, that Agri- 
cola labored upon its walls. However this may be, it 
was early distinguished by the Romans, during their 
dynasty in Britain. The Emperor Adrian made it his 



148 ROMANS AT YORK. 

residence as early as the year 134, and it was the 
camp, the court, and the tomb of Severus. Here, 
about 272, Constantine the Great was born, and here, 
in the imperial palace, his son, Constantius, died. The 
footsteps of old Rome, upon this spot, are attested by 
altars, inscriptions, seals, and sepulchral vessels, which 
have been from age to age exhumed. Not more than 
thirty years since, some workmen, in digging the found- 
ation of a house, struck, four feet below the surface, on 
a vault of stone, strongly arched with Roman bricks. 
It contained a coffin, enclosing a slender human skele- 
ton, with the teeth entire, supposed to be a female of 
rank, who had lain there at least one thousand four 
hundred years. Near her head was a small glass lach- 
rymatory, and not far from her place of repose was 
found an urn containing ashes and calcined bones of 
another body. Still more recently, the remains of a 
tessellated pavement, with other relics of great an- 
tiquity, have been found and presented to the York- 
shire Philosophical Society. Our own antiquarian 
tastes were easily and simply gratified, by finding, in 
various repositories, during our walks, slight utensils, 
such as boxes, vases, inkstands, and candlesticks, 
wrought and neatly polished from the charred beams 
of the venerable Minster. 

It is impossible to explore the city of York, without 
reverting to the scenes which History has so indelibly 
traced, as almost to give them living existence among 
the objects that surround us. Imagination rekin- 
dles, on the neighboring hills, the fires of the funeral 



HISTORICAL RECOLLECTIONS. 149 

pile of Severus, or recalls the tumult of the sanguina- 
ry battles of Towton and Marston Moor, fought in the 
vicinity, one of which terminated the fierce wars of the 
Roses, and the other, through the imprudence of Prince 
Rupert, crushed the hopes of the Royalists. 

We fancy that we listen to the chimes of the first 
Christmas, as it was here celebrated by Prince Arthur, 
or gather traits of its more splendid observance, under 
Henry the Third or Edward the Second, from the 
pages of the old Chroniclers. Still following the an- 
nals of war, we perceive the blood of Scot, Pict, and 
Dane, Roman, Saxon, and Norman, mingling beneath 
these walls. Sack and siege darken the picture. Wil- 
liam the Conqueror, flushed with success and domina- 
tion, held his armies for six months before these walls, 
until famine compelled capitulation, and then satiated 
his vengeful cruelty by the slaughter of the nobility 
and gentry, and the devastation of the whole country 
between York and Durham. 

In the wars under Charles the First, a siege by the 
Parliamentary forces was endured for several months, 
which some of the present inhabitants are fond of say- 
ing would have been longer withstood, had not Fairfax 
pointed a battery of cannon against the venerable ca- 
thedral, and threatened to destroy that glory of their 
ancestors. 

We may now hope, with regard to York, that the 
days of its warfare and mourning are ended ; and the 
traveller is gratified to find the turmoil of the battle- 
field exchanged for the Christian cares of the Hospital, 



150 YORK MINSTER. 

the Dispensary, the Retreat for the Insane, the Insti- 
tution for the education of the Blind, the Charity 
Schools, and the twenty parish churches that diversify 
its bounds. 

It seems impossible to be disappointed in York 
Minster, however high may have been previous expec- 
tations. When you first gain a view of this mountain 
of ecclesiastical architecture, or, at entering, cast your 
eye through a vista of five hundred and twenty-four 
feet, or from the tessellated marble pavement gaze 
through column and arch up to the ribbed and fretted 
dome, ninety-nine feet above you, or catch the light of 
a thousand wreathed and trembling rainbows, through 
gloriously refulgent windows, you are lost in wonder 
and astonishment. Its different parts, nave, transept, 
choir, chapter-house, and crypt, with the rich decora- 
tions of screen, statue, tracery, and monument, where 
sleep the illustrious dead, require many surveys, and 
repay all with the fulness of admiration. The original 
erection on this site is of great antiquity, and the pres- 
ent edifice, though more than one hundred and fifty 
years in building, displays, amid variety of taste and 
style, great unity of design. It has loftily withstood 
the attacks of time and the depredations of war, but 
some portions have been considerably injured by recent 
conflagration, and are now in the process of repair. 
The magnificent swell of the organ, and the majesty 
and sweetness of the chants, especially during the 
Sabbath worship, seemed unearthly. Twice, on every 
weekday,- the service of prayer and praise ascends 






YORK MINSTER. 151 

from this venerable cathedral, and it is a touching 
thought, that its great heart of stone keeps alive that 
incense to Jehovah, which too often grows dim and 
cold on the altar of the living soul. 



I stood within a Minster of old time, 
Ornate and mighty. Like a mount it reared 
Its massy front, with pinnacle and tower, 
Augustly beautiful. The morning sun 
Through noblest windows of refulgent stain, 
Mullioned, and wrought with leafy tracery, 
Threw o'er the pavement many a gorgeous group 
Of cherubim and seraphim and saint, 
And long-robed patriarch, kneeling low in prayer, 
While, as his golden finger changed the ray, 
Fresh floods of brilliance poured on all around. 

— O'er the long vista the delighted eye 
Bewildered, roved, — transept, and nave, and choir, 
And screen elaborate, and column proud, 

And vaulted roof that seemed another sky. 

— Methinks I hear a murmur, that 't is vain 
To note mine etchings of an older world, 
Since all their vague impressions fall as short 
Of abbey or cathedral, as the wing 

Of the dull beetle, that would scale their heights. 

— It may be so. I 'm sure 't is loss of time, 
For me to speak of pediment and tower, 
Saxon or Norman, and debate with warnith, 



152 YORK MINSTER. 

"Whether the chevron-work, and foliage knots 

Are of the third or second Gothic school ; 

The builder knows, — perchance, the school-boy too. 

But poets' cobweb line hath ever failed 

To measure these aright, and set them forth 

With Euclid's skill. Go see them for yourselves. 

Yet can we people every vacant niche, 

And mend the headless statue, and restore 

The rusted relics of a buried age, 

And spread the velvet pall the moth did eat 

All fresh and lustrous o'er the ancient, dead. 

So be ye patient with us, and not ask 

The admeasurement of transept or of nave, 

But let us perch, like bird, where'er we choose, 

And weave our fleeting song, as best we may. 

Fain would I tell you, what a world of sound 

Came from that pealing organ, when its soul, 

Mixed with the chanter's breath, bade arch and aisle 

Reecho with celestial melody. 

Its mighty tide bore off the weeds of care 

And sands of vanity, and made the words, 

Such common words as man doth speak to man, 

All tame and trifling to the immortal soul. 

I would not say devotion may not be 

As heartfelt, in the humblest village church 

That flecks the green ; but yet, it seemeth fit, 

That those, who thus, from age to age, have been 

Unresting heralds of the Eternal Name, 



YORK MINSTER. 153 

Should deck themselves in princely garniture, 
As Heaven's ambassadors. 

To Him who bade 
The broad-winged cherubs beautify the Ark 
That taught His worship to the wilderness, 
And mitred Aaron stand in priestly robes, 
And Zion's temple wear its crown of rays, 
Like a king's daughter, thou, majestic pile, 
Dost show thy reverence by thy glorious garb, 
And, with a solemn tone, require of man 
Unceasingly, that incense of the heart, 
Which he doth owe to God. And when he drops 
Thy lesson in the grave, and fades away, 
With what unwrinkled patience dost thou teach 
Each new-born race Jehovah's awful name, 
And press upon their infant lips His praise. 

— Again we came, and on the Sabbath-day, 
And marked, amid the throng of worshippers, 
A poor old man, bent low with years of toil. 
His garb was humble, and his lowly seat 
Fast by the reader in the sacred desk, 
Because, methought, his ear was dull to sound. 
It seemed as if his travel had been sore, 
Along the barren wilds of poverty, 
But yet that, mid its flint-stones, he had found 
That pearl of price, which the rich merchantman 
Too oft o'erlooketh on his prosperous way. 
Meekly he bowed, nor cast a wandering glance 
Toward kingly scutcheon, or emblazoned arms 



154 YORK MINSTER. 

Of prince and peer, but listened earnestly, 

As for his life, to what the King of kings 

Commanded or forbade. When solemnly 

The deep responsive litany invoked 

Aid and deliverance by the agony 

And cross of Christ, his trembling hands he raised, 

Horny, and brown with labor, while a tear 

Crept slowly down its furrowed path. Old man ! 

Thou hast within thee that which shall survive 

This temple's wreck, and if aright I read 

Our Master's spirit in thy moistened eye, 

That which shall wear a crown, when earthly thrones 

Have name no more. 

And then we knelt us down 
Around the altar, in that hallow'd feast 
Which Jesus, in his dark betrayal-night, 
Enjoined on his disciples. There we took 
The broken bread and cup, remembering Him 
In all his lowliness, in all his love, 
Who sought the straying sheep. 

So lift thy crook, 
Shepherd Divine ! that we may follow thee 
Where'er thou will'st to lead, nor miss thy fold, 
When the slant beams of life's declining day 
Call home the wanderers to eternal rest. 



BIRMINGHAM AND SHEFFIELD. 



Birmingham occupies a central position, with an 
elevated and pleasant site. It exhibits more than a 
hundred fine churches ; among which, the ancient one 
of St. Martin's, with its towering spire, is conspicuous. 
Among its lions is a spacious town-hall, which we were 
so fortunate as to see brilliantly lighted, and filled with 
an immense audience, assembled to aid the cause of 
missions. Eloquent addresses were delivered by the 
advocates of this cause, as well as by some who had 
once gone forth as laborers in foreign zones, among the 
benighted pagans. 

Birmingham is eminently a practical, working region. 
It has distinguished itself by those inventions and im- 
provements in machinery, which diminish the labor of 
man, and promote his civilization. Our limited time 
allowed us to examine but few of its manufactories. 
Among these, we were much interested in an exten- 
sive one of plate-glass, belonging to the Messieurs 
Chance. Its proprietors, to whom we were indebted 
for other polite attentions, patiently explained to us the 
process of preparing that exquisite material, blowing it 



156 SHOW-ROOMS. 

into a cylindrical form, and giving it, with emery, its 
last perfect polish. We saw, also, the progress of ope- 
rations in bronze, and silver, and papier mache ; and 
could scarcely believe that those highly ornamented 
articles, in the repository of the latter, — screens, ta- 
bles, cabinets, &c, inlaid with pearl, and radiant with 
the richest hues of the pencil, — could possibly have 
sprung from so rude an element as coarse, brown paste- 
board. 

To Sheffield, the kindred spirit of Birmingham, we 
turned, as by natural affinity. It is about equidistant 
from the eastern and western oceans, and two hundred 
and fifty miles from our favorite Edina. It is strongly 
picturesque, with its abrupt declivities, intervening 
spaces of bright verdure, metallic and mineral riches, 
and private residences of decided elegance. 

We were kindly taken by the Messieurs Sanderson 
to their celebrated establishment for making and refin- 
ing steel, and saw it poured, in its liquid state, from 
flame-hot crucibles, with the most brilliant scintillations. 
Through their attention, we were also shown the vari- 
ous processes of silver-plating ; and also the fair botanic 
garden and conservatory, which afforded sensible relief 
from the heat and mystery of metalic exhibitions. 
Afterwards we visited the show-rooms of Rogers and 
Sons, and among their almost endless variety of cut- 
lery, silver, and ivory, saw under a glass case the knife 
with one thousand eight hundred and thirty-eight 
blades, so often marvelled at by travellers. The pros- 
pects from the heights around Sheffield are variegated 



MONTGOMERY. 157 

and beautiful. Yet more interesting than any combi- 
nation of hill and dale, inasmuch as mind must ever 
hold superiority over matter, was an interview with the 
poet Montgomery, who came to call on us at our hotel. 
Pie is small of stature, with an amiable countenance, 
and agreeable, gentlemanly manners. His conversa- 
tion is unassuming, though occasionally enlivened by a 
vein of pleasantry. Some of the company happening 
to remark, that they were not aware of his having been 
born in Scotland, he replied that he had left it in his 
early years, adding, with naivete, " You know Dr. 
Johnson has said, there is hope of a Scotchman if you 
catch him young." 

We left Birmingham and Sheffield with warm feel- 
ings of gratitude for the kindness which had marked 
our stay in both places, and which will always mingle 
with our recollections of their scenery. 



'T is something to be called 
The " toy-shop of a continent," by one 
Whose voice was fame. And yet a name like this 
Hath not been lightly earned. Hard hammerings 
And fierce ore-meltings, mid a heat that threats 
To vitrify the stones, have wrought it out 
On the world's anvil. 

Ponderous enginery, 
And sparkling smithies, and a pallid throng, 
Who toil, and drink, and die, do service here, 



158 BIRMINGHAM AND SHEFFIELD. 

And countless are the forms their force creates ; 
From the dire weapon sworn to deeds of blood, 
That sweeps, with sharp report, man's life away, 
To the slight box from whence the spinster takes 
Her creature-comfort, or the slighter orb 
Of treble-gilt, which the pleased school-boy finds 
On his new suit, counting the shining rows 
"With latent vanity. 

Well pleased, I marked 
This strange creativeness, because I knew 
That Birmingham had stretched an iron hand 
Across the Atlantic wave, and grappled close 
My country in that league of amity 
Which commerce loves. And whatsoe'er shall bind 
Those lands in unity, is dear to me, 
Whether the links be metal, or the threads 
Of silky filament by genius thrown 
From clime to clime, or those which science knits 
In firmer mesh, as erst the sorceress wove 
The strong man's locks. 

Here, too, were fabrics rich 
That taste might covet, — cabinet and screen, 
Table and tray, with pearly shell inlaid, 
And bright with tints of landscape or of flower. 
Here glass in crystal elegance essayed 
To emulate the diamond, and we saw 
The flaming fount from whence its glories came, 
And how the glowing cylinder expands 
Into those broad and polished plates, that deck 
The abodes of princes. 



BIRMINGHAM AND SHEFFIELD. 159 

Many a curious thing 
"Was shown us too at Sheffield, — ornaments, 
And thousand-bladed knives, and fairy tools 
For ladies fingers, when the thread they lead 
Through finest lawn ; and silver richly chased, 
To make the festal board so beautiful, 
That, unawares, the tempted matron's hand 
Invades her husband's purse. 

But as for me, 
Though the whole art was patiently explained, 
From the first piling of the earthy ore, 
In its dark ovens, to its pouring forth 
With brilliant scintillations, in the form 
Of liquid steel ; or its last lustrous face, 
And finest net- work ; yet I 'm fain to say 
The manufacturing interest would find 
In me a poor interpreter. I doubt 
My own capacity to comprehend 
Such transmutations, and confess, with shame, 
Their processes do strike my simple mind 
Like necromancy. And I felt no joy 
Among the crucibles and cutlery, 
Compared to that, which on the breezy heights 
Met me at every change, or mid the walks 
Of the botanic garden, freshly sprang 
From every flower. 

There was a quiet lodge 
From whence peered forth, as guardian of the place, 
A mighty dog, of true St. Bernard's breed, 
With such a forehead as phrenologists 



160 MONTGOMERY. 

Might stoop to analyze. Well pleased to change 
His slippery footing 'mid the Alpine cliffs, 
And midnight conflicts with the avalanche, 
He dozed among the birds who nestle here, 
All prodigal of song, and laid no claim, 
Though lion-like in strength, to the renown 
Of that bad Cerberus, who gnashed and growled 
At the Hesperides. 

But Sheffield, sure, 
Hath more to boast, than plants whose greenness fades, 
Or riches of the mine. She pointed out 
The sweet Moravian poet, he who saw 
Through Fancy's glass, the " World before the Flood," 
And told its doings to our grosser ear, 
And oft had given Devotion's lip the words 
She sought but could not find. High praise is his 
Who bends his talents to their noblest ends, 
And ne'er disjoins them from the Maker's praise : — 
Such praise is thine, Montgomery, meek in heart. 
And full of Christian love. 

We said farewell 
Reluctantly to those, who, like tried friends, 
Though newly seen, had marked each fleeting hour 
With deeds of kindness; and as through the scenes 
Of glorious beauty, hill and dale and tower, 
Swept on our light postchaise, of them we spake 
Such words as glowing gratitude inspires. 

There stood a cottage, near a spreading moor, 
Just where its heathery blackness melts away 



THE COTTAGE MAIDEN. 161 

Into a mellower hue. Fast by its side 

Nestled the wheat-stock, firmly bound and shaped 

Even like another roof-tree, witnessing 

Fair harvest and good husbandry. Some sheep 

Roamed eastward o'er the common, nibbling close 

The scanty blade, while toward the setting sun 

A hillock stretched, o'ershadowed by a growth 

Of newly planted trees. 'T would seem the abode 

Of rural plenty and content. Yet here 

A desolate sorrow dwelt ; such as doth wring 

Plain honest hearts, when what had long been twined 

With every fibre is dissected out. 

Beneath the shelter of those lowly eaves 
An only daughter made the parents glad 
With her unfolding beauties. Day by day 
She gathered sweetness on her lonely stem, — 
The lily of the moorlands. They, with thoughts 
Upon their humble tasks, how best to save 
Their little gains, or make that little more, 
Scarce knew that she was beautiful ; yet felt 
Strange thrall upon their spirits when she spoke 
So musical, or from some storied page 
Beguiled their evening hour. 

And when the sire 
Descanted long, as farmers often will, 
Upon the promise of his crops, and how 
The neighbors envied that his corn should be 
Higher than theirs, and how the man who hoped 
Surely to thrive, must leave his bed betimes, — 
11 



162 THE STUDENT LOVER. 

Or of her golden cheese the mother told, — 
She, with a filial and serene regard, 
Would seem to listen, — her young heart away 
Mid other things. 

For in her lonely room, 
She had companions that they knew not of, — 
Books, that reveal the sources of the soul, 
Deep meditations, high imaginings ,; 
And, meekly, when the cottage lamp was out, 
She sat communing with them, while the moon 
Looked through her narrow casement fitfully. 
Hence grew her brow so spiritual, and her cheek 
Pale with the purity of thought, that gleamed 
Around her from above. 

The rustic youth, 
Nursed at the ploughshare, wondering eyed her charms, 
Or of her aspen gracefulness of form 
Spoke slightingly. Yet, when they saw the fields 
Her father tilled, well clad with ripening grain, 
And knew he had no other heir beside, 
They, with unwonted wealth of Sunday clothes, 
And huge, red nosegays flaunting in their hands, 
"Were fain to woo her. And they marvelled much 
How the sweet fairy, with such quiet air 
Of mild indifference, and with truthful words 
Kind, yet determinate, withdrew herself 
To chosen solitude, intent to keep 
A maiden's freedom. 

But in lonely walks, 
What time the early violets richly blend 



PARTING AND DEATH. 163 

Their trembling colors with the vernal green, 
A student boy, who dwelt among the hills, 
Taught her of love. There rose an ancient tree, 
The glory of their humble garden's bound, 
Around whose rough circumference of trunk 
A garden-seat was wreathed ; and there they sat, 
Watching gray-vested twilight, as she bore 
Such gifts of tender, and half-uttered thought 
As lovers prize. "When the thin-blossomed furze 
Gave out its autumn sweetness, and the walls 
Of that low cot, with the red-berried ash 
Kindled in pride, they parted ; he to toil 
Amid his college tasks, and she to weep. 

— The precious scrolls, that with his ardent heart 
So faithfully were tinged, unceasing sought 

Her hand, and o'er their varied lines to pore 
Amid his absence, was her chief delight. 

— At length they came not. She with sleepless eye, 
And lip that every morn more bloodless grew, 
Demanded them in vain. And then the tongue 

Of a hoarse gossip told her, he was dead : 
Drowned in the deep, and dead! 

Her young heart died 
Away at those dread sounds. Her upraised eye 
Grew large and wild, and never closed again. 
" Hark ! hark ! he calleth, I must hence away," 
She murmured oft, but faint and fainter still, 
Nor other word she spake. 

And so she died. 



164 PARTING AND DEATH. 

And now that lonely cottage on the moor 
Hath no sweet visitant of earthly hope, 
To cheer its toiling inmates. Habit-led, 
They sow, and reap, and spread the daily board, 
And steep their bread in tears. 

God grant them grace 
To take this chastisement, like those who win 
A more enduring mansion, from the blast 
That leaveth house and home so desolate. 



CHATSWORTH AND HADDON HALL. 



Our morning ride, in a postchaise, from Sheffield, 
through Edenson and the adjacent region to Chats- 
worth, under a pure autumnal sky, was intensely beau- 
tiful. We were scarcely prepared for the display of 
taste and magnificence that burst upon us at the last- 
named princely establishment of the Duke of Devon- 
shire. It seemed a hollow square of nearly two hundred 
feet, boldly terraced, and was approached over grad- 
ually rising grounds. From an eminence towards the 
east, the old Hunting Tower held forth a streaming 
flag, as an announcement that the master of this unri- 
valled mansion was at home. Immediately after enter- 
ing the central gate, by the porter's lodge, we paused 
to admire a fine weeping ash, whose rich, dark foliage, 
drooping to the ground, forms within its circumference 
an arch of exceeding beauty. It was removed hither 
from Derby, about ten years since, at an expense of 
£1,000; and though it had attained the age of forty 
years ere its transplantation, flourishes unchanged in 
its new home. Large flocks and herds luxuriate in 
the pastures, and deer, so fat as to forfeit a portion of 



166 CHATS WORTH. 

their fleetness, embellish the parks. The grounds of 
Chatsworth cover an area of eleven miles, diversified 
by lawns, plantations, and pleasure-grounds. The spot 
called the Italian Gardens, is adorned with statues, 
and vases, and a rich stone balustrade, fronting the 
Derwent. 

It would be in vain to attempt a description of this 
splendid establishment. Dazzled as the eye may be 
with its internal decorations, I could not but consider 
the conservatory as its chief glory. It extends several 
hundred feet, its lofty roof resting on iron pillars, and 
entirely covered with large plates of glass, furnishing 
a spacious carriage-drive through plants and flowers 
from every region of the earth. Some of these are of 
surpassing beauty, and all refreshed by waters artifi- 
cially distributed, and cheered by a perpetual summer, 
as if a second Paradise fostered their bloom. 

In the sculpture-gallery at Chatsworth, among noble 
forms, and groups apparently instinct with life, we 
were attracted by the statue of a young spinning-girl, 
from the chisel of a German artist. She is called the 
Filatrice, and stands in a simple and graceful attitude 
upon the fragment of a granite column, brought from 
the Roman forum. Extensive collections of paintings, 
engravings, and other works of art, enrich this re- 
sidence, as they do also that at Chiswick, another seat 
of this tasteful and liberal nobleman, where, among 
other antique specimens of sculpture, are three statues 
from Adrian's villa at Rome. 

It is well to see Chatsworth and Haddon Hall in 



HADDON HALL. 167 

the same day. The contrast of their features deepens 
the impression which each leaves on the mind. The 
overwhelming splendor of one prepares you to relish 
and to reverence the silent, mournful majesty of the 
other. You pass as from a Roman triumph, to Marius 
sitting among the ruins of Carthage. 

This touching relic of the olden time occupies an 
elevation, overshadowed by large trees, from whence 
it looks down upon the fair valley and bright waters of 
the Wye. Its most ancient portions date back nine 
hundred years, into the Saxon dynasty. William, the 
Norman, who was liberal in parcelling out the good 
things of the conquered realm among his own relatives 
and adherents, gave it to his natural son, Peveril. 
Thence, by marriage, it passed to the Vernons, and 
again, in the same manner, to the house of Manners, 
who now hold the dukedom of Rutland. In exploring 
its deserted halls, it is easy to scan three distinct styles 
of architecture, which as clearly define three differing 
states of social and domestic manners. The tall gray 
Eagle Tower, with its round loopholes and prison-like 
apartments, recalls those days of despotism and danger, 
when castellated buildings were fortresses of defence 
against the Danish pirate, or the roaming outlaw. This 
period extended from the close of the Saxon dynasty, 
through the reigns of some of the Plantagenets, while 
the Peverils and Avenels bore rule at Haddon Hall. 
Huge fire-places, immense larders, chopping-blocks on 
which a whole ox might be laid, heavy oak tables, and 
the old wicket, through which every stranger received, 



168 STATE BED-ROOM. 

if he desired, a trencher of substantial food and a cup 
of ale, mark the succeeding era of rude feasting and 
free hospitality. The third epoch brought in the more 
lofty ceilings, richly gilt, the halls panelled with oak, 
the carved cornices, and the bay windows, decorated 
with armorial bearings. 

The state bed-room at Haddon Hall is still adorned 
with ancient hangings of Gobelines. Their subjects 
seem to be taken from the imagery of -ZEsop's Fables. 
The bed is surmounted by a canopy of green silk vel- 
vet, fourteen feet in height, and lined with thick, white 
satin. Its embroidered curtains were wrought by the 
needle of the Lady Eleanor, wife of Sir Robert Man- 
ners, and are a commendable trophy of her industry. 
But the hands of pilferers have been so busy in ab- 
stracting shreds and fragments of this rich, antique 
couch, that it has been found necessary to protect it by 
an enclosure, something like the railing erected around 
the bed of Mary of Scotland, in the old Holyrood 
palace. 

The various improvements made by the houses of 
Vernon and Manners may be plainly traced. The first 
of these obtained possession of this time-honored struc- 
ture in the time of Henry the Sixth, and the latter, 
during the reign of Queen Elizabeth. So liberal was 
the housekeeping of Haddon, that one hundred and 
forty servants were employed and maintained there by 
the first duke of Rutland, in the time of Queen Anne. 
Now all is silence and loneliness within its bounds. 
Two hundred years have elapsed since it was inhab- 



CHATS WORTH AND HADDON HALL. 169 

ited. But the late Duchess of Rutland, having been 
much attached to its scenery, was solicitous that it 
should be kept in good preservation, as a specimen of 
other days. Her wishes have been scrupulously obey- 
ed, and thus the antiquarian taste, and the reflecting 
mind, continue to find high gratification from a visit to 
this deserted mansion. 



I 've heard the humid skies did ever weep 
In merry England, and a blink of joy 
From their blue eyes was like a pearl of price. 
Mine own, indeed, are sunnier, yet at times 
There comes a day so exquisitely fair, 
That with its radiance and its rarity 
It makes the senses giddy. 

Such an one 
Illumined Chatsworth, when we saw it first, 
Set like a gem against the hanging woods 
That formed its background. Herds of graceful deer, 
Pampered, perchance, until they half forgot 
Their native fleetness, o'er the ample parks 
Roamed at their pleasure. From the tower that crests 
The eastern hill, a floating banner swayed 
With the light breezes, while a drooping ash, 
Of foliage rich, stood lonely near the gates, 
Like the presiding genius of the place, 
Uniquely beautiful. Their silver jet 
The sparkling fountains o'er the freshened lawns 
Threw fitfully, and gleaming here and there, 



170 CHATS WORTH AND HADDON HALL.- 

The tenant-statues with their marble life 
Peopled the shades. 

But, wondering most, we marked 
A princely labyrinth of plants and flowers, 
All palace-lodged, and breathing forth their sweets 
On an undying summer's balmy breast. 
And well might wealth expend itself for you, 
Flowers, glorious flowers ! that dwelt in Eden's bound, 
Yet sinned not, fell not, and whose silent speech 
Is of a better Paradise, where ye, 
Catching the essence of the deathless soul, 
Shall never fade. 

Throughout the noble pile 
Pictures and spars and vases, and the show 
Of alabaster, porphyry, and gold, 
Blend with a lavishness that ne'er offends 
The eye of taste. Had I the skill to tell 
Featly of halls, that like Arabia's dream 
O'erflow with all that Fancy can devise, 
To strike, to charm, to dazzle, and delight, 
Here were full scope. But I have dwelt too long 
Within a simple forest-land, to know 
The fitting terms for such magnificence. 
So, from the painted ceilings, and the light 
Of costly mirrors, 't was relief to seek 
The shaded gallery of sculptured forms, 
And taste the luxury of musing thought. 

Spin on, most beautiful ! 

There's none to mock 



CHATS WORTH AND HADDON HALL. 171 

Thy humble labors here. Gay Cupid clasps 
The unscathed butterfly, sweet Hebe smiles, 
Latona, mid her children, cries to Jove, 
Achilles mourns his wound, Endymion sleeps, 
The Mother of Napoleon wears the grace 
Canova gave, and proud Borghesa rears 
Her head in majesty, yet none despise 
Thy lowly toil. 

Even thus it was of old, 
That woman's hand, amid the elements 
Of patient industry, and household good, 
Reproachless wrought, twining the slender thread 
From the slight distaff, or in skilful loom 
Weaving rich tissues, or with varied tints 
Of bright embroidery, pleased to decorate 
The mantle of her lord. And it was well ; 
For in such sheltered and congenial sphere 
Content with duty dwelt. 

Yet few there were, 
Sweet Filatrice, who in their homely task 
Found such retreat or goodly company, 
To dignify their toils. And we, w T ho roam 
Mid all this grand enchantment, proud saloon, 
And solemn chapel, with its voice of God, 
Or lose ourselves amid the wildering maze 
Of plants and buds and blossoms, uttering forth 
Mute eloquence to Him, are pleased to lay 
Our slight memorial at thy snowy feet. 

Now, on to Haddon Hall. The postern low, 
And threshold, worn with tread of many feet, 



172 CHATSWORTH AND HADDON HALL. 

Receive us silently. How grim and gray- 
Yon tall, steep fortalice above us towers ! 
Its narrow apertures, like arrow-slits, 
Jealous of heaven's sweet air, its dreary rooms 
Floored with rough stones, its uncouth passages 
Cut in thick walls, bespeak those iron times 
Of despotism, when o'er the mountain-surge 
Rode the fierce sea-king, and the robber hedged 
The chieftain in his moat. 

A freer style 
Of architecture, clearly as a chart, 
Defines the isthmus of that middle state, 
After the Conquest, when the Saxon kernes 
With their elf-locks receded. Coarsely mixed, 
Norman with Gothic, stretch the low-browed halls, 
Their open rafters brown with curling smoke. 
Hearthstone and larder, as for giant race, 
Tell of rude, festal doings, when in state 
The stalwart baron, seated on the dais, 
Serf and retainer fitly ranged around, 
Gave hospitality at Christmas-tide ; — 
The roasted ox, the boar, with holly crowned, 
And mighty venison pasty, proudly borne 
'Tween a stout brace of ancient serving-men. 
The elements of rude and gentle times 
Were ill concocted then, and struggling held 
Each other in suspension, or prevailed 
Alternately. " Barbaric pearl and gold " 
Were roughly set ; and cumbrous arras hid 
The iron-hasped and loosely-bolted doors. 
Broad-branching antlers of the stag were then 



CHATSWORTH AND HADDON HALL. 173 

The choicest pictures, and the power to quaff 
Immense potations from the wassail-bowl 
Envied accomplishment. 

But Haddon tells 
Still of another age, and suits itself 
To their more courtly manners. Carvings rich, 
And gilded cornices, and chambers hung 
With tapestry of France, and shapely grate 
Instead of chimney vast, and fair recess 
Of oriel window, mark the advancing steps 
Of comfort and refinement. 

Here moved on, 
In stately minuet, lords with doublet slashed, 
And ladies rustling in the stiff brocade ; 
And there, the deep-mouthed hounds the chase pursued, 
The maiden ruling well her palfrey white, 
With knight and squire attendant. 

Hear we not 
Even now their prancing steeds ? 

'T is passing strange ! 
Dwell death and life in mystic company ? 
Do hands invisible, of spectres pale 
Tend these young plants, and bind yon straggling boughs 
In beautiful obedience ? 

— Come they back, 
From their old mouldering vaults, when none are near, 
And with their spirit-eyes inspect the flowers 
That once they loved ? Toil they in shadowy ranks 
Mid these deserted bowers, then flit away ? 



174 CHATS WORTH AND HADDON HALL. 

They seem but just to have set the goblet down, 
As for a moment, yet return no more. 
The chair, the board, the couch of state are here, 
And we, the intrusive step are fain to check, 
As though we pressed upon their privacy. 
Whose privacy ? The dead f A riddle all ! 
Yea, — we ourselves are riddles. 

While we cling 
Still to our crumbling hold, so soon to fall 
And be forgotten, in that yawning gulph 
That whelms all past, all present, all to come, 
Oh, grant us wisdom, Father of the Soul, 
To win a changeless heritage with thee. 



MATLOCK. 



Our visit to Matlock was one of unmixed satisfac- 
tion. We had not been instructed to expect the ro- 
mantic prospect that burst upon us, almost cheating us 
into the belief that we had wandered into one of the 
wild villages of Switzerland. Our descent from the 
postchaise was simultaneous with taking a seat upon 
some well-bred donkeys, which, with their necks deco- 
rated with blue ribbands, were standing under the 
windows of our hotel upon the green. The excitement 
of thus traversing the mountain-heights, and the odd 
appearance of our cavalcade, so grotesquely mounted, 
each steed occasionally urged onward by the voice or 
staff of the guides, afforded us much amusement. Af- 
terwards our walks and purchases among the shops, 
where the rich Derbyshire spars are presented in an 
endless variety of articles for ornament and utility, the 
enchanting prospects that met us at every turn, and 
the bright sunny skies that cheered us during our 
whole stay in Matlock, made our time there glide away 
as a fairy dream. 

One of our entertainments was to climb a steep hill, 



176 WILLERSLY CASTLE. 

and entering an aperture, on its brow, explore a mine 
three thousand feet in length, and gradually descend- 
ing to four hundred beneath the surface. A less labo- 
rious and more agreeable recreation was to visit the 
groves and heights of Willersly Castle. Bold masses 
of rock mingle with the foliage of lofty trees, and the 
richest velvet turf creeps to their very base. The 
prospect in the rear of the castle is one of the most 
delightful that we saw in Derbyshire. The pleasure- 
grounds, gardens, and hot-houses, with their fine pro- 
ductive graperies and pineries, were more interesting 
to us Americans, from the circumstance that the found- 
er of this goodly mansion, the late Sir Richard Ark- 
wright, was the architect of his own fortune. He was 
the youngest of thirteen children of a poor man in 
Preston, in the county of Lancashire. By native vigor 
of mind and great perseverance, he overcame the diffi- 
culties and discouragements of his humble station. 
After much opposition, he succeeded in establishing 
here the first cotton-mill on improved principles. The 
benefit thus conferred on his country was felt and 
acknowledged, and in this same neighborhood the in- 
dustrious and faithful mechanic, having received the 
honor of knighthood, commenced, at the age of fifty, 
the erection of the fine edifice bearing the name of 
Willersly Castle. Moved by that piety which formed 
a part of his character, he endowed and began to build 
a beautiful stone chapel in the vicinity of the castle. 
Dying before its completion, it was finished by his son, 
whom he left one of the richest commoners in Eng- 



MATLOCK. 177 

land. The charity schools connected with it, and which 
number several hundred scholars, are also kept up en- 
tirely at his expense ; and it gave us pleasure to find 
that the ladies of the family took personal interest in 
them. The elevation of industry and merit from 
obscurity, and their union with an active benevolence 
and piety, which we have so often been permitted to 
see in our own dear land, seemed, if possible, to become 
a still more beautiful lesson, amid the aspiring rocks 
and romantic glens of Derbyshire. 



It would be most ungrateful not to speak, 
Matlock ! of thee. Thy dwellings mid the cliffs, 
Like a Swiss village, or the hanging nest 
Of the wild bird, — thy fairy glens scooped out 
From the deep jaws of mountain fastnesses, — 
Thy pure, pure air, — the luxury of thy baths, — 
Thy donkey-rides amid the pine-clad hills, 
Or o'er the beetling brow of bold Masson, 
Spying, perchance, in some close-sheltered nook 
The pale lutea and red briony, 
Or infant waterfall, that leaps to cast 
Its thread of silver to the vales below, — 
Thy long and dark descents to winding caves, 
Where sleep the sparkling spars, — the thousand forms 
Which art cloth give them to allure the eye, 
And decorate the mansion, — lamp, and vase, 
And pedestal, and toy, — these all conspire 
12 



178 MATLOCK. 

In sweet confusion to imprint thee deep 
On memory's page. 

But when the thunder rolls, 
Yon silent cliffs forget their quietude, 
And like the watchman, when the foe is near, 
Shout to each other. 

Every rifted peak 
Takes up the battle-cry, and volleying pours 
Reverberated peals, till the hoarse cloud 
Expends its vengeance, and, exhausted, sweeps 
O'er the unanswering dales. 

See where yon rocks, 
Fretted and ribbed as if the storms had snatched 
The sculptor's chisel, and amid their freaks 
Channelled and grooved and wrought without a plan, 
Lift their worn frontals. Here and there, the trees 
Insert themselves perforce, against the will 
Of the stern crags, by coarse and scanty earth 
Nurtured in contumacy, while the blasts 
Do sorely wrench and warp them, well resolved 
To punish such usurpers : — still they cling 
And gather vigor from adversity. 
On, — by those crevice-holders to the lawns 
Of Willersly, and to its garden-heights, 
And gaze, astonished, on the scene below. 

Lo ! with what haste the full-orbed Moon doth steal 
Close on the footsteps of departing day, 
Eager to greet the landscape that she loves. 
Strong Derwent murmurs at the intrusive shades 



MATLOCK. 179 

That fringe his banks to shut him from her smile, 
And higher as her queenly car ascends, 
Outspreads a broader bosom to her beam. 
Most beautiful ! It fits not speech like mine, 
Soul-stirring scene, to set thy features forth 
In their true light. I have no hues that reach 
Glories like thine. The watery tint alone 
That moisteneth in the eye, doth tell of thee. 

Yet should I ever, from my distant home 
Tempted to roam, dare the wild deep once more 
For Albion's sake, — I 'd watch two summer-moons 
Waxing and waning o'er the purple peaks 
Of Derbyshire, and from the sounding brass 
And tinkling cymbal of absorbing care 
Or vanity, and from the thunder-gong 
"Which the great world doth strike, delighted hide 
In quiet Matlock, lulled by Nature's charms, 
And hourly gleaning what she saith of God. 



THE SLEEPING SISTERS, 



IN THE LICHFIELD CATHEDRAL. 



Hush ! hush ! tread lightly, 't were not meet 

So sweet a dream to break, 
Or from that tender, clasping hand 

One snowdrop leaflet shake, 

Or drive away the angel smile, 

That lights each gentle face, 
For waking life would surely fail 

To yield so pure a grace. 

Hear'st thou their breathing, as they sleep 

On pillow lightly prest ? 
Is aught on earth so calm and deep 

As childhood's balmy rest? 

A quiet couch those sisters find 
Within these hallowed walls 



chantret's sculpture. 181 

Where shaded light through storied pane 
In solemn tinture falls, 

Tracing our Lord's ascending flight 

Up to his glorious throne, 
Who took the guileless in His arms, 

And blest them as His own. 

beautiful ! — but where the soul 

In Paradise doth walk, 
There springeth up no angry blast 

To bow the floweret's stalk, 

There springeth up no cloud to mar 

Affection pure and free, 
And blessed as this peaceful sleep, 

Such may their waking be. 

The sculpture of Chantrey has seldom been more 
touchingly exhibited than in the statues of two sleeping 
sisters, the only children of the Rev. Mr. Robinson, for- 
merly a prebendary of Lichfield Cathedral. They are 
entwined in each other's arms, the youngest holding in 
her hand a few snowdrops. Their forms are of perfect 
proportion, and every muscle seems wrapped in deep 
repose. You touch the pillow, ere you are convinced 
that it is not downy, and the sweep of the mattress, 
and the light folds of their graceful drapery, are all 
admirably chiselled out of a single block of the purest 
marble. The epitaph is in harmony with the beauty 
and pathos of the monument. 



182 ASHBURTON CHURCH. 

" Ellen Jane, and Marianna, 

Only Children 

of the late Rev. William Robinson, 

and Ellen Jane, his Wife. 

Their affectionate Mother, 

In fond remembrance of their heaven-loved innocence. 

Consigns their remembrance to this Sanctuary, 

In humble gratitude 

For the glorious assurance, that 

" Of such is the Kingdom of God." 

This exquisite work of genius is placed under the 
beautiful eastern window of stained glass, in the south 
choral aisle, in Lichfield Cathedral. Somewhat simi- 
lar in its effect on the feelings is a monument in 
Ashbourne Church, to the only daughter of Sir Brooke 
Boothby, a child of five years of age. On a low white 
marble pedestal is a mattress, where the little sufferer 
reclines, her sweet face expressive both of pain and 
patience. Her beautiful hands, clasped together, rest 
near her head. The only drapery is a frock, flowing 
loosely, and a sash, whose knot is twisted forward, as 
in the restlessness of disease. You imagine that she 
has just turned, in the tossings of fever, to seek a cooler 
spot on her pillow, or an easier position for her wearied 
form. The inscription is in four languages ; — 

To Penelope, 

Only child of Sir Brooke and Susanna Boothby. 

She was in form and intellect most exquisite. 

The unfortunate parents confided their all to this frail bark, 

And the wreck was total. 

I was not in safety ; neither had I rest ; 

Neither was I quiet; 

And this trouble came. 



SIR BROOKE BOOTHBY. 183 

The bereaved father was one of the benefactors of 
Lichfield Cathedral, and a testimony is there recorded 
to the zeal and generosity with which he obtained for it, 
in 1802, while travelling in Germany, specimens of 
the most splendid stained glass, executed in the six- 
teenth century, illustrating a variety of Scripture sub- 
jects, and sufficient to fill seven large windows. This 
Cathedral, and its monuments, seemed in a state of 
good preservation, and many of its epitaphs were of 
singular excellence. Among the latter we noticed one 
to Dr. Samuel Johnson, accompanied by a marble bust 
of the great man, whose nativity Lichfield is proud to 
claim. 



STRATFORD UPON AVON. 



Many circumstances conspired to make our visit to 
Stratford upon Avon one of peculiar interest. We had 
the finest autumnal weather, and so perfect a full moon, 
that our researches could be continued in the evening, 
almost as well as during the day. 

Among the buildings which we noticed in our excur- 
sions, were some in the cottage style, tastefully adorned, 
and of graceful proportions. Near the church where 
Shakspeare's dust reposes, we observed a pleasant, 
commodious mansion, devoted to the instruction of 
young ladies, and met several classes of them returning 
from their walk, a bright-browed and apparently 
happy throng. Methought the pursuit of knowledge 
might be sweet, amid such localities and associations. 

But among the most interesting features of our visit 
to Stratford upon Avon, were the services of the Sab- 
bath in this same old church. The approach to it is 
through a long green vista, the trees having been trained 
while young to bend and interlace their branches. The 
Avon flows by its walls, and as we wandered on its 
green margin, a chime, softened by distance, was borne 



GRAVE OF SHAKSPEARE. 185 

over its peaceful waters, with thrilling melody. A 
grove of young willows is planted here, and all that is 
picturesque in the village seems to be concentrated in 
this vicinity. The inroads of time upon the church 
have been carefully repaired, and its interior is agreea- 
ble. It has some stately monuments, and the archi- 
tecture of the chancel is symmetrical. The celebrated 
bust of Shakspeare is near it, in a niche upon the 
northern wall. A cushion is before it, the right hand 
holds a pen, and the left a scroll. The forehead is 
high and noble, and as the likeness was executed soon 
after his death, it may be supposed to convey some cor- 
rect resemblance of his countenance. It was formerly 
in bright colors, but is now covered with a coat of 
white paint. Not far from it is tlie spot where his 
ashes rest, with the quaint adjuration ; 

" Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbear 
To dig the dust enclosed here ; 
Blest be the man that spares these stones, 
And curst be he that moves my bones." 

Near him his wife reposes, with a Latin inscription 
on a small metalic tablet. On the tomb of their daugh- 
ter Susannah, the wife of John Hall, who died in 1649, 
at the age of sixty-six, the following epitaph was for- 
merly legible : — 

" Witty above her sex, but that 's not all, 
Wise to salvation, was good Mistress Hall ; 
Something of Shakspeare was in that, but this 
Was of that Lord, with whom she 's now in bliss : 



186 BREAD TO THE POOR. 

Oh passenger ! hast ne'er a tear 
To weep for her who wept with all ? 

Who wept, yet set herself to cheer 
Them up with comfort's cordial ? 

Her love shall live, her mercy spread, 

When thou hast ne'er a tear to shed." 

"With our feet resting almost on the very spot where 
the remains of the great poet slumber, we listened to 
the sacred services of the Church, and to three ser- 
mons, from three different clergymen. In the first we 
were reminded of the love of the Redeemer, from the 
text, " Draw us, and we will run after thee ;" — in the 
second, of the necessity of repentance, from the warn- 
ing of Ezekiel, " I have no pleasure in the death of 
him that dieth, saith the Lord ; wherefore turn your- 
selves and live ye ;" — and in the last, at evening, of 
the duty and privilege of mental communion with the 
Father of our spirits, from the injunction, " Continue 
in prayer." 

At the close of the services in the afternoon, we saw 
what was then to us a new scene, — the distribution of 
bread to the poor. It is not uncommon for benevolent 
persons to leave legacies for this form of charity. It 
was touching to see what numbers pressed forward to 
present a ticket, and receive their share. The greater 
part of the recipients were aged and decrepit, or else 
appeared to be the parents of large families ; and the 
eyes of many a child fixed earnestly upon the fair 
wheaten loaves which were dealt out, and from which 
it was doubtless expecting to make its evening meal. 



QUAINT EPITAPH. 187 

After witnessing this act of bounty, and hoping that in 
the comfort it communicated, the living bread by which 
the soul is nourished might not be forgotten, we took 
a walk in the green and quiet churchyard. Among 
the antique tombstones, was one of a coarse, brown 
material, wrought into a double head, and commemo- 
rating, in parallel lines, the birth and death of two 
females, the singular construction and orthography of 
whose epitaph is here transcribed : — 

" Death creeps abought on hard, 
And steals abroad on seen, 
Hur darts are suding and hur arows Keen, 
Hur Strocks are deadly, com they soon or late, 
When being Strock, Repentance is to late, 
Death is a minut, full of suding sorrow, 
Then Live to day, as thou may'st dy to Morrow. 
Anno Domony, 1690." 

The native place of Shakspeare is not strikingly pic- 
turesque, and the habitudes of its people reveal no dis- 
tinctive character. We fancied that the urchins playing 
about the streets were somewhat more noisy and in- 
subordinate than English children are wont to be. 
Possibly they were striving to be like the renowned 
bard, in those points of character most easily imitable. 
His name is in almost every mouth, and you can 
scarcely turn a corner but what some vestige of him 
meets the eye. It would seem that he, who through- 
out life was the least ambitious, the most careless about 
his fame, of all distinguished men, was, by the very echo 



188 POWER OF GENIUS. 

of that fame, after the lapse of centuries, to give the 
chief impulse to some five or six thousand persons, 
dwelling on the spot where he first drew breath. There 
are the Shakspeare relics, the Shakspeare statue, the 
Shakspeare Theatre, the Shakspeare Hotel, the Shaks- 
peare bust, the Shakspeare tomb ; — everybody tells 
you of them, — everybody is ready to rise, and run, 
and show them to the stranger. The ancient house 
and chamber where he was born, are humble even to 
meanness. Yet walls, and ceilings, and casketed albums 
are written over, and re-written, with the names of pil- 
grim visitants from various climes, — princes, nobles, 
poets, philosophers, and sages. 



What nurtured Shakspeare mid these village shades, 
Making a poor deer-stalking lad, a king 
In the broad realm of mind ? 

I questioned much 
Whatever met my view, the holly-hedge, 
The cottage-rose, the roof where he was born, 
And the pleached avenue of limes, that led 
To the old church. And pausing there, I marked 
The mossy efflorescence on the stones, 
Which, kindling in the sunbeam, taught me how 
Its little seeds were fed by mouldering life, 
And how another race of tiny roots, 
The fathers of the future, should compel 
From hardest-hearted rocks a nutriment, 
Until the fern-plant and the ivy sere 



SHAKSPEARE. 189 

Made ancient buttress and grim battlement 
Their nursing-mothers. 

But again I asked, 
" What nurtured Shakspeare ? " The rejoicing birds 
Wove a wild song, whose burden seemed to be, 
He was their pupil when he chose, and knew 
Their secret maze of melody to wind, 
Snatching its sweetness for his winged strain 
With careless hand. 

The timid flowrets said, 
" He came among us like a sleepless bee, 
And all those pure and rarest essences, 
Concocted by our union with the skies, 
Which in our cups or zones we fain would hide, 
He rifled for himself and bore away." 

— The winds, careering in their might, replied, 
" Upon our wings he rode, and visited 
The utmost stars. We could not shake him off. 
Even on the fleecy clouds he laid his hand, 
As on a courser's mane, and made them work 
With all their countless hues his wondrous will." 

And then meek Avon raised a murmuring voice, 
What time the Sabbath-chimes came pealing sweet 
Through the umbrageous trees, and told how oft 
Along those banks he wandered, pacing slow, 
As if to read the depths. 

Ere I had closed 
My questioning, the ready rain came down, 



190 SHAKSPEAKE. 

And every pearl-drop, as it kissed the turf, 
Said, " We have been his teachers. When we fell 
Pattering among the vine-leaves, he would list 
Our lessons as a student, nor despise 
Our simplest lore." 

And then the bow burst forth, — 
That strong love-token of the Deity 
Unto a drowning world. Each prismed ray 
Had held bright dalliance with the bard, and helped 
To tint the woof in which his thought was wrapped 
For its first cradle-sleep. 

Next, twilight came 
In her gray robe, and told a tender tale 
Of his low musings, while she noiseless drew 
Her quiet curtain. And the queenly moon, 
Riding in state upon her silver car, 
Confessed she saw him oft, through chequering 

shades, 
Hour after hour, with Fancy by his side, 
Linking their young imaginings, like chains 
Of pearl and diamond. 

Last, the lowly grave, — 
Shakspeare's own grave, — sent forth a hollow tone, 
— " The heart within my casket read itself, 
And from that inward study learned to scan 
The hearts of other men. It pondered long 
In those lone cells, where nameless thought is born, 
Explored the roots of passion, and the founts 
Of sympathy, and at each sealed recess 



SHAKSPEARE. 191 

Knocked, until mystery fled. Hence her loved bard 
Nature doth crown with flowers of every hue 
And every season ; yea, the human soul 
Owning his power, shall, at his magic touch, 
Shudder, or thrill, while age on age expires." 



WARWICK CASTLE. 



In our explorations of the pleasant town of War- 
wick, we were much interested in visiting St. Mary's 
Church, a venerable structure, whose foundation claims 
the antiquity of a Saxon origin. It is built in the 
form of a cross, and its proportions are symmetrical. 
" You '11 see the Beechem tombs, sure ! " said our 
guide, leading the way to an adjoining edifice. I 
scarcely knew, from his mode of pronunciation, that he 
meant the Beauchamp chapel, the most stately and 
costly one in the kingdom, with the exception of that 
of Henry the Seventh, in Westminster Abbey. Its 
entrance is through an ornamented vestibule, the rich- 
ness of its painted glass is striking, and many of its 
monuments elaborate. Near the northern wall is the 
tomb of Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, the favorite 
of Queen Elizabeth, and her host during the princely 
festivities of Kenilworth, when for seventeen days the 
hand of the great clock at the castle was ever pointing 
to the hour of banquet. There, also, slumber the re- 
mains of his countess, under the same gorgeous canopy 
with himself, supported by Corinthian columns. Poor 



RICHARD BEAUCHAMP. 193 

Amy Robsart ! how instinctively turns the heart to 
thee, and to the fearful secrets of Cumnor Hall. Near 
the southern wall of the chapel are entombed the re- 
mains of his infant son, " the noble Impe, Robert of 
Dudley, Baron of Denbigh," and heir presumptive to 
the earldom of Warwick. In the centre is the monu- 
ment of its founder, Richard Beauchamp, the great 
Earl of Warwick, who held offices of the highest trust 
and power under Henry the Fourth and Fifth, and 
conducted the education of Henry the Sixth. During 
the exercise of his office, as Regent of France, he died 
at Rouen, in 1439, and his body was brought over in 
a stone coffin for interment here. The monument dis- 
plays his recumbent statue in fine brass, clad in a full 
suit of plate armor. In a curious old biography of 
him, it is told how " erle Richard by the auctoritie of 
the hole parliament was maister to king Henrie the 
6th, and so he contynowed till the yonge king was 
16 yere of age." A drawing in the same book repre- 
sents him in his robes and coronet, taking the infant 
monarch from his nurse's arms, — the Queen and Bishop 
of Winchester standing by with sorrowful countenances. 
The round, unthinking face of the boy expresses no 
sympathy in their regret; though he probably soon 
learned to realize the contrast between the delights of 
the royal nursery, and the training of his stately tutor, 
who, we learn from history, insisted peremptorily on 
the privilege of inflicting personal chastisement, and 
subjected his pupil to many severe restrictions. This 
iron rule pressed heavily upon the weak mind of the 
13 



194 ANTIQUE VASE. 

unfortunate Henry, whose touching epitaph at Windsor 
cannot be read without pity. 

" Here, o'er the ill-fated king the marble weeps. 
And fast beside him vengeful Edward sleeps, 
Whom not the extended Albion could contain, 
From old Belerium to the northern main, 
The grave unites ; where even the great find rest, 
And blended lie the oppressor and the opprest." 

Warwick Castle looks down upon the Avon at its 
base, with true baronial dignity. The gray -haired por- 
ter, at its embattled gateway, seemed to show, with 
pride, the gigantic armor, and other relics, of Guy of 
Warwick, and to speak of his marvellous feats and 
redoubtable valor. 

Among these, his having slain a Saracen giant, and 
a wonderful dun cow, were not forgotten. u Here," 
said the narrator, " is his seething pot. It holds ex- 
actly 102 gallons." And, warming as he proceeded, he 
told how, when the son of the present earl came of 
age, it was thrice filled with punch, and how, at each 
precious concoction, eighteen gallons of brandy, eigh- 
teen of spirit, and one hundred pounds of sugar were 
consumed. 

In the greenhouse we were gratified by seeing the 
celebrated antique vase, found at the bottom of a lake, 
in the villa of the Emperor Adrian, near Tivoli. It 
is of white marble, and among the finest specimens of 
ancient sculpture. Vine branches, exquisitely wrought, 
form its handles, and grapes, leaves, and tendrils, clus- 



Vandyke's picture. 195 

ter gracefully around its brim. It stands upon a pe- 
destal, with a Latin inscription, and was originally 
purchased by Sir William Hamilton, and afterwards 
by the late Earl of Warwick. 

Among the pictures in Warwick Castle is a grand 
one of Charles the First, by Vandyke. The king in 
armor is seated on a gray horse, so majestic, yet so 
melancholy, that you almost imagine him endued with 
a prophetic spirit, and in the midst of regal grandeur 
saddened by his future fate. Bernard de Foix, Duke 
of Espernon and Valette, holds his helmet as a page. 
Vandyke executed three splendid equestrian paintings 
of this monarch. The other two are at Hampton 
Court and Windsor Castle. 



Stout Guy of Warwick, may we pass unharmed 
Thy wicket-gate ? And wilt thou not come forth 
With thy gigantic mace to break our bones, 
Nor seethe us in thy caldron, whence of yore 
The blood-red pottage flowed ? 

A glorious haunt 
Thy race have had 'neath these luxuriant shades 
From age to age. Around the mighty base 
Of their time-honored castle, lifting hisfh 
Rampart and tower and battlement sublime, 
Winds the soft-flowing Avon, pleased to clasp 
An infant islet in her nursing arms. 
Anon her meek mood changes, and in sport 
She leaps with frolic foot from rock to rock, 



196 WARWICK CASTLE. 

Taking a wild dance on their pavement rude ; 
Then half complaining, half in merriment, 
Resumes her quiet way. 

"Would that I knew . 
The very turret in this ancient pile, 
Where the sixth Henry had his tuteluge, 
Wearing with tasks ten tedious years away. 
The mother's tear was on his rounded cheek, 
When stately Beauchamp took him from her arms, 
An infant of five summers, to enforce 
His knightly training. Pressed the iron hand 
Of chivalry all harshly on his soul, 
Keeping its pulses down, till the free stream 
Of thought was paralyzed ? Perchance the sway 
Of such stern tutor might have bowed too low 
What was too weak at first ; and so, poor king, 
Thou wert in vassalage thy whole life long, 
The scorn of lawless spirits — on thy brow 
Wearing a crown indeed, but in thy breast 
Hiding the slave-chain. 

In yon lofty hall, 
Hung round with ancient armor, interspersed 
With branching antlers of the hunted stag, 
Fancy depictureth a warrior-shade, 
The swarth king-maker, he who bore so high 
His golden coronet, and on his shield 
The Bear and ragged Staff. At his rough grasp 
The warring roses quaked ; and like the foam 
That crests the w T ave one moment, and the next 
Dies at its feet, alternate rose and sank 



WARWICK CASTLE. 197 

The crowned heads of York and Lancaster. 

— Gone are those days with all their deeds of arms, 

Their clangor echoing loud from shore to shore, 

Rousing the " shepherd-maiden" from her flocks 

To buckle on strange armor and preserve 

The endangered Gallic throne. 

With traveller's glance 
We turned from Warwick's castellated dome, 
Wrapped in its cloud of rich remembrances, 
And took our pilgrim way. There many a trait 
Of rural life we gathered up, to fill 
The outline of our picture, shaded strong 
By the dark pencil of old feudal times. 

We saw a rustic household wandering forth 
That cloudless afternoon, perchance to make 
Some visit promised long, for- each was clad 
With special care, as on a holiday. 
The father bore the baby awkwardly 
In his coarse arms, like tool or burden used 
About his work, yet kindly bent him down 
To hear its little murmur of delight. 
With a more practised hand the mother led 
One who could scarcely totter, its small feet 
Patting unequally, — from side to side 
Its rotund body balancing. Alone, 
Majestic in an added year, walked on 
Between the groups another ruddy one. 
She faltereth at the stile, but being raised 
And set upon the green sward, how she shouts, 



198 WARWICK CASTLE. 

Curvets, and gambols like a playful fawn, 

Plucking with pride and wonder, here and there, 

Herbling or flower, o'er which the infant crows 

One moment, and the next, with chubby hand 

Rendeth in pieces like a conqueror. 

On went the cottage-group, and then there came 

A poor old man, unaided and alone, 

Clad in his almshouse garments. Slow he moved 

And painfully, nor sought the human eye 

As if expectant of its sympathy. 

He hath no children in his face to smile, 

No friend to take him by the withered hand, 

Yet looketh upward, and his feeble heart 

Warms in the pleasant sunshine. 

Yea, look up ! — 
The world hath dealt but harshly, and old Time, 
That cunning foe, hath all thy nerves unstrung, 
And made thy thin blood wintry. Yet look up ; — 
The pure, pure air is thine, the sun is thine, 
And thou shalt rise above them, if thy soul 
Cling to its Saviour's skirts. So be not sad 
Or desolate in spirit, but hold on 
A Christian's faithful journey to the land 
Where palsied limbs and wrinkles are unknown. 



KENILWORTH. 



A drive of five miles brought us from Warwick to 
Kenilworth. It is scarcely necessary to say, that the 
ruinous, yet still beautiful castle, constitutes its sole 
claim to celebrity. Amid this antique edifice, vestiges 
still remain of the portions erected by " Old John of 
Gaunt, time-honored Lancaster." In better preserva- 
tion are the Leicester buildings, reared by the haughty 
nobleman on whom Elizabeth bestowed the castle. 
Almost three centuries have passed since she so freely 
taxed the hospitality of her lavish favorite, and still 
the echo of their banqueting, which for seventeen days 
knew no interval, seem to reach our ears through the 
wizard pages of Sir Walter Scott. 

Though, in the civil wars between Charles and 
Cromwell, — falling into the possession of the latter, — 
it was dismantled and despoiled, I was not prepared to 
find it so entire a ruin. Dense masses of luxuriant 
ivy clasped and enfolded those broken arches and 
mouldering turrets, whence issued the pageantry and 
revels of royalty. 

All silent ! all deserted ! The absence of life and 



200 ANCIENT BARONS. 

motion, led to a musing interview with those who 
peopled it of old. Before me, suddenly seemed to 
stand its founder, stout Geoffry de Clinton, the clear- 
minded, plain-spoken knight, who to the rude hospital- 
ities of his fortalice so often allured the courtly mon- 
arch, Henry Beauclerc. 

Anon, the scene changes. A century has passed 
away. Over yon broken heights, the towering form 
and frowning brow of Simon de Montfort sweeps, with 
his retainers, summoning the malcontent barons to up- 
hold the rebellion of his ambitious father, the Earl of 
Leicester, against King Henry the Third. 



I always longed for ruins. When a child, 

Living where rifted rocks were plentiful, 

I fain would climb amid their slippery steeps, 

Shaping them into battlement, and shaft, 

And long-drawn corridor, and dungeon-keep, 

And haunted hall. Not but our own fresh groves 

And lofty forests were all well enough, 

But Fancy gadded after other things, 

And hinted that a cloistered niche, or roof 

Of some gray abbey, with its ivy robe, 

"Would be a vast improvement. So, I thought 

To build a ruin ; and have lain awake, 

Thinking what stones and sticks I might command, 

And how to arrange them fitly in some nook 

Of field or garden. But the years sped on, 

And then my castles in the air came down 



KENILWORTH. 201 

So fast, and fell in such fantastic forms 
At every step, that I was satisfied, — 
And never built a ruin. 

When at last, 
I roamed among the wrecks of Kenilworth, 
Assured my feet were on the very spot 
Where haughty Dudley, for the haughtier queen, 
Enacted such a show of chivalry 
As turned the tissues of Arabia pale, 
I lingered there, and through the loopholes gray 
Gazed on the fields beneath, and asked some tale 
Of what they might remember. The coarse grass, 
Fed in the stagnant marsh, perked up its head 
As though it fain would gossip ; but no breeze 
Gave it a tongue. 

Where is thy practised strain 
Of mirth and revelry, O Kenilworth ! 
Banquet and wassail-bowl, and tournament, 
And incense offered to the gods of earth ? 
The desolation, that befel of yore 
The cities of the plain, hath found thee out, 
And quelled thy tide of song. 

Deserted pile ! 
Sought they, who reared thee, for a better house 
Not made with hands ? Or, by thy grandeur lured, 
Dreamed they to live forever, and to call 
These lands by their own names ? 

Where Cesar's tower 
Hides in a mass of ivy the deep rents 
That years have made, methinks we still may see 



202 KENILTVORTH. 

The watchful warder lay his mace aside, 
And through the pent-horn blow a mighty blast, 
To warn his master, the good, stalwart knight, 
Geoffry de Clinton, that his patron-king, 
The Norman Beauclerc, with a hunting train, 
Swept o'er the Warwick hills, intent to prove 
His hospitality, perchance to explore 
His new-reared fortress. 

Let a century pass, — 
And from yon bastion, with a fiery glance, 
That speaks the restless and vindictive soul, 
Simon de Montfort counts his men at arms, 
Warning his archers that their bows be strong, 
And every arrow sharply ring that day, 
Against their lawful sovereign. 

Change hath swept, 
With wave on wave, the feudal times away, 
And from their mightiest fabrics plucked the pride . 
The patriarchs, and the men before the flood, 
Who trod the virgin greenness of the earth, 
While centuries rolled on centuries, dwelt in tents, 
And tabernacles, deeming that their date 
Was all too short, to entrench themselves, and hold 
Successful warfare with oblivious death. 
But we, in the full plenitude and hope 
Of threescore years and ten, (how oft curtailed !) 
Add house to house, and field to field, and heap 
Stone upon stone ; then, shuddering, sink and die : — 
While in our footsteps climb another race, 
Graves all around them, and the booming knell 
Forever in their ears. 



KENILWORTH. 203 

The humbling creed, 
That all is vanity, doth force a way 
Into the gayest heart, that trusts itself 
To ruminate amid these buried wrecks 
Of princely splendor and baronial pomp. 
Methinks the spirit of true wisdom loves 
To haunt such musing shades. The taller plants 
Sigh to the lowly ones, and they again 
Give lessons to the grass, and now and then 
Shake a sweet dewdrop on it, to reward 
A docile temper ; while each leaf imprints 
Its tender moral on the passer-by, — 
" Ye all, like us, must fade." 

Here comes a bee, 
From yon forsaken bower, as if to watch 
Our piracies upon her honey-cups, 
Perchance, with sting to guard them. Light of wing ! 
Hast e'er a hive amid those tangled boughs ? 
We '11 not invade thy secrecy, nor thin 
Thy scanty hoard of flowers. Let them bloom on ; 
Why should we rob the ruin of a gem, 
Which God hath set, to help its poverty ? 

It seems like an illusion still, to say 

I 've been at Kenilworth. But yet 't is true. 

And when once more I reach my pleasant home, 

In Yankee land, should conversation flag 

Among us ladies, though it seldom does, 

When of our children, and our housekeeping, 

And help we speak, — yet should there be a pause, 



204 KENILWORTH. 

I will bethink me in that time of need 

To mention Kenilworth, and such a host 

Of questions will rain down, from those who read 

Scott's wizard pages, as will doubtless make 

The precious tide of talk run free again. 

And when I 'm sitting in my grandame chair, 
If e'er I live such honored place to fill, 
I '11 hush the noisy young ones, should they tease 
And trouble their mamma, with promised tales 
Of ancient Kenilworth. 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 

^ The first entrance into London is an era in the life 
of every human being. The deep tide of historic asso- 
ciation, meeting the strong surge of living things, like 
a conflicting current, sways and bewilders the balance 
of the mind. For a moment, the Past and Present are 
chaotic elements. 

But with me, as motes may eclipse the sun, a little 
fountain in the heart sprang up, and prevailed. Let- 
ters from home ! — our first letters from home ! Here 
they met us. So uncertain and erratic had been our 
programme, that our bankers deemed it safest not to 
forward them. 

Words of love ! What force do they gather by trav- 
ersing thousands of miles of earth and ocean. They 
remember us still ! the dwellers in that home which is 
ever on our prayers. Those lines from the young pens 
of children, — why are they suddenly so wet with 
tears ? Let the mother, who has scarcely ever been 
absent for a week from those she has nurtured, — who 
could hear, on her own pillow, their sweet breathings 
in the nursery, — count the hours of silence for seventy- 



206 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 

six days and nights, and see if she does not bless 
the gray goose-quill, and the art of the scribe, with a 
fervor heretofore unknown. 

Our first Sabbath service in the world's great me- 
tropolis was at "Westminster Abbe}'. There, amid the 
mouldering dust of the mighty dead, we ought surely 
to have listened, with deepened devotion, to the sub- 
lime prayers, and solemn instructions of a sermon from 
the words of our divine Lord, — " Marvel not that I 
said unto you, ye must be born again." 

Our initiatory view of this wonderful pile was cursory, 
having decided to attend the afternoon's worship at St. 
Paul's, which, from our hotel in Hanover Square, was 
distant between three and four miles. Repeated visits, 
and more thorough examinations, heightened our senti- 
ments of wonder and of awe. To select or delineate par- 
ticular monuments, seems invidious and unjust to the 
emotions that spring up in this great palace of tombs. 

Methought Bacon said to us from his marble pedes- 
tal, " After all our wanderings, religion is the haven 
and sabbath of man's contemplations." Milton, in his 
majesty, seemed to burst forth in that thrilling adjura- 
tion, — 

" Avenge, Lord ! thy slaughtered saints, whose bones 
Lie bleaching on the Alpine mountains cold." 

The smile upon Prior's lip seemed indicative of the 
sweetness that sometimes flowed from his lyre ; and I 
hope to be forgiven that, standing by the pure white 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 207 

marble of Watts, my first thought should breathe out 
his simple, maternal melody. — 

" Hush, my dear ! lie still, and slumber, 
Holy angels guard thy bed." 

Him of Avon bore to us, on a graven scroll, the glori- 
ous passage that gathered, as in one great sound* the 
witnessing spirits of all who reposed there, — 

" The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces, 
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,— ' 
Yea, all it doth inherit, shall dissolve, 
And, like the baseless fabric of a vision, 
Leave not a rack behind." 

One of the Admirals of England, from the solemn sym- 
bols of a magnificent monument, taught of the time 
" when the sea shall give up her dead ; » and the Ger- 
man musician, Handel, while apparently listening in 
delighted abstraction to the harp of an angel amid 
clouds, points to the words of the patriarch, embalmed 
in the strains of his own Messiah, 

" I know that my Redeemer liveth." 

The contrast between the meditations that would fain 
linger amid this receptacle of the illustrious dead and 
the ceaseless turmoil and pressure of the living throng 
without, is strikingly and strangely impressive. The 
restlessness and rush of the people, in the most popu- 
lous parts of London, are among the best aids to a 
stranger in forming an idea of its magnitude. At first 



208 THRONGS OF LONDON. 

there is a dreaminess, an uncertainty whether one is, 
of a very truth, in the " world's great wilderness capi- 
tal." Parts of it are so much like what have been 
seen at home, that we try to fancy we are still 
there. Names, too, with which we have been familiar 
from the lispings of our earliest lessons in geography, 
or whose imprint was in the most precious picture- 
books of our nursery, assist this illusion. Paternoster 
Row, Temple Bar, Charing Cross, The Strand, Fleet 
Street, Bolt Court, from whose sombre windows it is. 
easy to imagine Dr. Johnson still looking out, are to 
us as household words. But when you see the press 
and struggle of the living mass, at high noon, through 
some of the most frequented streets ; or when, on some 
thronged Sabbath in St. Paul's, listen to the tread of 
the congregation, like the rush of many waters, upon 
the marble pavement of that vast ornate pile, you begin 
to realize that you are indeed in the midst of two mil- 
lions of human beings. A kind of suffocating fear 
steals for a moment over you, lest you might never get 
clear of them, and breathe freely in your own native 
woods again ; and then comes a deep feeling that you 
are as nothing among them ; that you might fall in the 
streets and die, unnoticed or trodden down ; that with 
all your home-indulgence, self-esteem, and vanity about 
you, you are only a speck, a cypher, a sand upon the 
seashore of creation : a conviction, humiliating, but 
salutary. 

Two* millions of human beings ! Here they have 
their habitations, in every diversity of shelter, from the 



THRONGS OF LONDON. 209 

palace to the hovel, in every variety of array, from the 
inmate of the royal equipage to the poor street-sweeper. 
Some glittering on the height of wealth and power, 
others sinking in the depths of poverty and misery. 
Yet to every heart is dealt its modicum of hope, every 
lip hath a taste of the bitter bread of disappointment. 
Death, ever taking aim among them, replenishes his 
receptacles night and day, while in thousands of cur- 
tained chambers, how many arms and bosoms earnestly 
foster the new-born life, that he may have fresh tro- 
phies. For earth and the things of earth, for fancies 
and forms of happiness, all are scheming, and striving, 
and struggling, from the little rill, working its way 
under ground in darkness and silence, to the great 
crested wave, that, with a thunder-sound, breaks on 
the shore of eternity. 

Unclasp the world's close armor from thy heart, 

Dismiss the gay companion from thy side, 
And, if thou canst, elude the practised art 
And dull recitative of venal guide ; 
So shalt thou come aright, with reverent tread, 
Unto this solemn city of the dead, 
Nor uninstructed mid its haunts abide : 
But o'er the dust of heroes moralize, 
And learn that humbling lore, which makes the spirit 
wise. 

How silent are ye all, ye sons of song, 

Whose harps the music of the earth did make ! 
14 



210 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 

How low ye sleep amid the mouldering throng, 
Whose tuneful echoes keep the world awake, 
While age on age their fleeting transit take ! 

How damp the vault where sweeps their banner-fold, 
Whose clarion-cry made distant regions quake ! 

How weak the men of might ! how tame the bold ! 
Chained to the narrow niche, and locked in marble cold. 

He of lost Paradise, who nobly sang, 

Whose thought sublime above our lower sphere 

Soared as a star ; and he who deftly rang 
The lyre of fancy, o'er the smile and tear, 
Ruling supreme ; and he, who taught the strain 
To roll Pindaric o'er his native plain ; 

He, too, who poured on Isis' streamlet clear 
Unto his Shepherd Lord the hymn of praise, 
I bow me at your shrines, ye great of other days. 

" 1 know that my Redeemer liveth ! " Grave 
Deep on our hearts, as on thy stony scroll, 

That glorious truth which a lost world can save, 
Oh German minstrel ! whose melodious soul 
Still in the organ's living breath doth float, — 
Devotion soaring on its seraph-note, — 

Or, with a wondering awe, the throng control, 
When from some minster vast, like thunder-chime, 

The Oratorio bursts in majesty sublime. 

Here rest the rival statesmen, calm and meek, 
Even as the child, whose little quarrel o'er, 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 211 

Subdued to peace, doth kiss his brother's cheek, 
And share his pillow, pleased to strive no more. 
Yes, side by side they sleep, whose warring word 
Convulsed the nations, and old ocean stirred ; 
Slight seem the feuds that moved the crowd of yore, 
To him who now in musing reverie bends, 
Where Pitt and Fox dream on, those death-cemented 
friends. 

And here lies Richard Busby, not with frown, 
As when his little realm he ruled severe, 

Nor to the sceptred Stuart bowed him down, 
But held his upright course, with brow severe ; 
Still bears his hand the pen and classic page, 
While the sunk features, marked by furrowing age, 

And upraised eye, with supplicating fear, 
Seem to implore that pity in his woe, 
Which, to the erring child, perchance, he failed to show. 

Mary of Scotland hath her monument 

Fast by that mightier queen of kindred line, 

By whom her soul was to its Maker sent, 
Ere Nature warned her to His bar divine ; 
It is a fearful thing, thus side by side 
To see the murderer and the murdered bide, 

And of the scaffold think, and strange decline 
That wrung the Tudor's weary breath away, 
And of the strict account at the great reckoning day. 

Seek ye the chapel of yon monarch proud, 
Who rests so gorgeous mid the princely train ? 



212 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 

And sleeps he sweeter than the humbler crowd, 
Unmarked by costly arch or sculptured fane ? 
I 've seen the turf-mound of the village hind, 
Where all unsheltered from the wintry wind, 
Sprang one lone flower of deep and deathless stain ; 
That simple faith which bides the shock of doom, 
When bursts the visioned pomp that decked the sa- 
trap's tomb. 

Dim Abbey ! 'neath thine arch the shadowy past 
O'ersweeps our spirits, like the banyan tree, 

Till living men, as reeds before the blast, 

Are bowed and shaken. Who may speak to thee, 
Thou hoary guardian of the illustrious dead, 
With unchilled bosom or a chainless tread ? 

Thou breath'st no sound, no word of utterance free, 

Save now and then a trembling chant from those 

Whose Sabbath-worship wakes amid thy deep repose. 

For thou the pulseless and the mute hast set, 
As teachers of a world they loved too well, 

And made thy lettered aisles an alphabet, 

Where wealth and power their littleness may spell, 
And go their way the wiser, if they will ; 
Yea, even thy chisel's art, thy carver's skill, 

Thy tracery, like the spider's film-wrought cell, 
But deeper grave the lessons of the dead, 
Their bones beneath our feet, thy dome above our head. 

A throng is at thy gates. With lofty head 
The unslumbering city claims to have her will, 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 213 

She strikes her gong, and with a ceaseless tread 
Circleth thy time-scathed walls. But stern and still, 
Thou bear'st the chafing of her mighty tide, 
In silence brooding o'er thy secret pride, 

The moveless soldiers of thy citadel ; 

Yet wide to Heaven thy trusting arms dost spread, 
Thine only watchword, God! God and the sacred dead! 



THE TOWER. 



The Tower, more than any other locality, seems the 
historic embodiment of England, in its majesty and its 
mystery, — its glories, its treasons, and its mistakes. 
From the time of the fierce Norman conqueror, the 
sighing of the prisoner, and the voice of the oppressor, 
like the wailing dirge and the shriek of the trumpet, 
have discordantly mingled within its walls. 

Covering an area of twelve acres, with massive and 
irregular fortifications, — its principal modern uses are 
as an arsenal, a fastness for the regalia, and a reposi- 
tory for the memorial of things that were. Its objects 
of interest in these different departments are almost 
without number. Still to me, from a deficiency of mil- 
itary impulse, some that were the most zealously ex- 
hibited, proved the least congenial ; and I gazed with 
more of surprise than exultation, on two hundred thou- 
sand stand of arms, arranged in an imposing manner, and 
quantities of cannon, — the captured treasures of many 
lands. The corroded guns of the Royal George, drawn 
by the diving-bell from their long sojourn in the deep, 
awakened recollections of the plaintive poem of Cowper, 



SPANISH ARMADA. 215 

— " Toll for the brave," — occasionally sung among 
the simple ditties of childhood. The destructive weap- 
ons and instruments of torture, taken from the Spanish 
armada, are placed in the neighborhood of a waxen 
effigy of Queen Elizabeth, on horseback, going to return 
thanks at St. Paul's for the defeat of that terrible arm- 
ament, by the artillery of Heaven, which she caused 
to be kept in memory by a medal with the inscription, 
" Thou didst blow with thy wind, the sea covered 
them." I placed my thumb in the screws which the 
Dons provided for their English neighbors, touched the 
edge of the axe that beheaded Anne Boleyn, felt the 
rugged block which had been so oft saturated with 
noble blood, and entered, with indignation, the dark, 
miserable dungeon where the noble Sir "Walter Ra- 
leigh was nightly locked, while his chainless intellect 
verified the assertion of the poet, — 

" The oppressor holds 
The body bound, but knows not what a range 
The spirit takes." 

The warders of the Tower, with their flat hats or 
caps, encircled with wreaths, and laced frock-coats, 
lead the mind back to the time of Henry the Eighth, 
who established that gorgeous costume. I formed quite 
a friendship for the line of equestrian kings, knights, 
and cavaliers, from Henry the Sixth to James the 
Second, who were ranged in full armor ; and regretted 



216 PRISON TURRET. 

to hear that any inroad should have been made among 
them by a subsequent conflagration at the Tower, 
which destroyed so many relics that time and tradition 
had made precious to mankind. 

In a darkened room, through a rampart of iron bars, 
we were permitted to look at England's regalia, scep- 
tre, ampulla, and christening font, — the crown of poor 
Anne Boleyn, — that of James the First, and the new 
one made for Victoria, sparkling with precious stones, 
and valued at two millions sterling. 

A different class of sentiments were appealed to, as 
we groped our way up the narrow, winding flight of 
steps to the turret on whose walls the martyrs had 
graven their names or etchings, with such rude instru- 
ments as their captivity might command. Climbing 
still higher, w r e looked from the grated window whence 
the lovely Lady Jane Grey gazed upon the headless 
form of her husband. 



Up, up this dizzy stair, for here she went 
To her dark prison-room, the sweetly fair, 

Around whose cradle, wealth and power had bent, 
And classic learning strewed its garlands rare, 

The guiltless martyr for a father's fault, 

Whose strong ambition overleaped the truth, 

And placed her, shrinking, on another's throne, 
To whelm in hapless woe her blooming youth. 



LADY JANE GREY. 217 

Here, on this grated window, let me lean, 

From whence she gazed upon that fearful sight, 

The life-blood of her bosom's dearest lord ; 

Her pale lip shuddering, yet her pure eye bright 

With faith the same sharp path to tread, and meet 
The idol of her love at their Redeemer's feet. 



OXFORD. 



In our ride of fifty-five miles, between London and 
Oxford, we passed over a portion of Hounslow Heath, 
so full of legendary lore, — saw the royal banners wav- 
ing from the battlements of Windsor Castle, and ad- 
mired a profusion of fine ancient oaks in Henly and 
its vicinity. We approached the time-honored spot, so 
hallowed by science, literature and loyalty, under the 
shades of evening ; but were admonished of our prox- 
imity to the classic atmosphere of its Universities by 
the tones of the " Mighty Tom," the great bell of Christ 
Church, which weighs one thousand seven hundred 
pounds, and at ten minutes after nine tolls one hundred 
and one times, the number of the established students, 
or fellows of that college. In our subsequent visit to 
that institution, where the sons of the nobility are edu- 
cated, we saw their tables spread in the spacious hall, 
one hundred and fifteen feet in length and fifty in 
height, built by Cardinal Wolsey, in the days of his 
magnificence. His portrait, in crimson robes, was 
hanging near that of his master, Henry the Eighth, 
whose capricious temper wrought his destruction. A 



CARDINAL WOLSEY. 219 

rude, triangular garden-chair, which he used to occupy 
when superintending the workmen upon the grounds, 
or the edifice, is still preserved in the library ; and, 
seating myself within its no very luxurious purlieus, 
the pathos of his dying supplication to the pitying Ab- 
bot, came freshly over me : 

" Give me a little earth for charity." 

In the morning service at St. Mary's Church, 
there were present the heads of twenty-one colleges, 
several distinguished theologians, and multitudes of 
students, with whose reverent deportment, healthful 
aspect, and fine appearance in their scholastic uniform, 
we were pleasantly impressed. In the afternoon, at 
St. Magdalen's fine old church, with its noble stained 
windows and ivy-clustered columns, we heard magnifi- 
cent music, from a grand organ, and a choir of one 
hundred voices, among which were sixteen perfectly 
trained chanting boys. 

Delightful walks had we often, amid the meadows of 
velvet verdure, and on the banks of the Isis and Cher- 
well. We seated ourselves on the identical spot, by 
the last named stream, sprinkled by snowy flocks and 
antlered deer, where Addison produced that almost 
inspired version of the 23d Psalm : 

" The Lord my pasture shall prepare, 
And feed me with a Shepherd's care." 

Our researches in the Bodleian and Radcliffe libra- 



220 BODLEIAN AND RADCLIFFE LIBRARIES. 

ries, the former of which contains 400,000 volumes, 
with countless manuscripts, delighted us exceedingly ; 
as did also the architecture of those time-honored struc- 
tures, in which, and in the illustrious men nurtured 
within their walls, Oxford so justly glories. The even- 
ing before our departure, after listening to the sublime 
chants in the beautiful chapel of New College, we went 
to stand on the spot, near Baliol, where, on the 16th of 
October, 1555, Latimer, bishop of Worcester, and 
Ridley, bishop of London, expired at the stake. It 
seemed, if not a natural combination, surely a touching 
climax, for thought to rise from the deep historical as- 
sociations that cluster around the fanes of learning and 
piety, to the unshrinking faith of that " blessed com- 
pany of martyrs," who, through much tribulation, en- 
tered into eternal rest. 

The spot, rendered so sacred by the sufferings of 
these two prelates, is now designated by a noble monu- 
ment, more than seventy feet in height — prepara- 
tions for the erection of which were in progress at the 
time of our visit to Oxford. 



Turret, and spire, and dome ! 

How proud they rise, 
Clasped in the arms of elmy avenues, 
Each with its robe of wisdom or of power 
Around it, like a mantle. Glorious thoughts, 
Born of the hoary past, and mighty shades 
Nurtured in silence, and made eloquent 



addison's seat. 221 

Here, in these cloistered cells, for after times, 
Meet him who museth here. 

I sat me down 
Upon a quiet seat, o'erhung with boughs 
Umbrageous, at my feet a dimpling stream, 
The silver Cherwell ; verdant meadows spread 
Broadly around, where roamed the antlered deer 
At pleasure, while serene a snowy flock 
Reposed or ruminated. 

Did some cloud 
Burst with an inborn melody ? Or harp, 
Instinct with numbers of the minstrel king, 
Pour forth an echo strain ? It was thy hymn, 
O Addison ! and this the chosen spot 
Where thou didst sing of Him, who should prepare 
Thy pasture, and by living waters lead, 
And the unslumbering Shepherd of thy soul 
Be evermore. 

And then there seemed to pass 
A shadowy host, the great of other days, 
Arm linked in arm, in high communion sweet, 
Blessing the haunts where Learning forged for them 
Imperishable armor ! 

But we turned 
From their entrancing company, to walk 
Among the living, and to scan the tomes 
In halls and alcoves hoarded, row on row, 
Which, in their plenitude, might half confuse 
The arithmetician's skill ; and see the light 
With rainbow pencil through the storied panes 



222 EVENING CHANT. 

Of old St. Magdalen, so solemnly 
Touch the dull pavement with the lore of heaven, 
A tender,'tinted lesson, which the heart 
Sometimes in colder flintiness receives, 
Unkindled, unreflected. Next, to hear 
St. Mary's wondrous chant, at evening hour, 
As though the earth to angels bade good night. 
And they replied, hosanna ! then, to stand 
Beneath the pure eye of the watching stars, 
Where on the winds their eddying ashes rose, 
Who earthly mitre for a martyr's crown 
In flames exchanged. 

Methought the scene returned 
Unfadingly before us. Then, as now, 
Fled was the Summer-flush, though Autumn's breath 
Delayed to sear the leaf, that o'er the tide 
Of gentle Isis hung. Up through the mass 
Of woven foliage went the holy towers, 
And classic domes, where throned Science points 
To Alfred's honored name. 

See the rude throng, — 
Dark glaring brows, and blood-shot, fiery eyes. 
And preparations dire for fearful pangs 
Of ignominious death. Yet all around, 
The sparkling waters, and benignant skies, 
And trees, with cool, embracing arms, allure 
To thoughts of mercy. Still, unpitying man 
Heeds not, relents not, though sweet Nature kneels. 
And sheds her holy tear-drops on his heart, 
To melt the savage purpose. 



RIDLET AND LATIMER. 223 

Through dense crowds 
Exulting led, there comes a noble form, 
Majestic of demeanor, and arrayed 
In sacerdotal robes. Those lips, which oft 
'Neath some cathedral's awe-imposing arch 
Warned with heaven's eloquence a tearful throng, 
Now, in this deep adversity, essay 
The same blest theme. With brutal haste they check 
The unfinished sentence, they who used to crouch 
To his high fortunes, or with shouts partake 
His flowing bounty. Smitten on the mouth, 
In silent dignity of soul, he stands 
Unanswering, though reviled. 

Lo ! at his side, 
Worn out with long imprisonment, they place 
The venerable Latimer. With years 
His footsteps falter, but his soul is firm, 
And his fixed eye, like the first martyr's, seems 
To read unfolding heaven. The gazing throng, 
The stake, the faggot, and the cutting sneer, 
Are nought to him. Wrapped in his prison-garb, 
The scorn of low malignity is he, 
Whom pomp and wealth had courted, at whose voice 
The pious Edward wept that childlike tear, 
Which works the soul's salvation, and his sire, 
Boisterous and swoln with passion, stood reproved 
Like a chained lion. 

Now the narrow space 
'Twixt life and death the dial's point hath run, 



224 RIDLEY AND LATIMER. 

And quick, with sacrilegious hand, they bind 
The guiltless victims. 

But the one who seemed 
The lowest bent with age, now strongest rose 
To give away his spirit joyously ; 
And, throwing off his prison garments, stood 
In fair, white robes, as on his spousal day. 
Then Ridley, in whose veins the pulse beat strong 
With younger life, girded himself to bear 
The burning of his flesh, while Faith portrayed, 
In glorious vision to his dazzled sight, 
The noble army of those martyred ones, 
Who round God's altar wait. 

With wreathing spires 
Up went the crackling flame, and that old man, 
Triumphant o'er his anguish, boldly cried, 
" Courage, my brother ! We this day do light 
A fire in Christendom, that ne'er shall die." 
Then on his shrivelled lip an angel's smile 
Settled, and life went forth as pleasantly 
As from a couch of down. 

But Ridley bore 
A longer sorrow. Oft with sigh and prayer 
He gave his soul to Jesus, ere the flame 
Dissolved that gordian knot which bound it fast 
To tortured clay. At length his blackened corse 
Fell at the feet of Latimer, who raised 
Still a calm brow to heaven. Almost it seemed 
That even in death the younger Christian sought, 



RIDLEY AND LATIMER. 225 

By posture of humility, to pay 
Deep homage to his venerated guide 
And father in the gospel. 

'T was a sight 
To curb demoniac rage. Low stifled sounds 
Of pity rose, and many a murmurer mourned 
For good King Edward, to the grave gone down 
In early sanctity. And some there were 
To ban the persecuting Queen, who fed 
The iires of Smithfield with the blood of saints, 
And dared to kindle in these hallowed vales 
Her bigot wrath. 

There was a chosen few, 
Who, sad and silent, sought their homes, to weep 
For their loved prelates, yet no railing word, 
Or vengeful purpose breathed, but waiting stood 
For their own test of conscience and of faith 
Inflexible. 

This was the flock of Christ. 



15 



DOVER. 



Through the greater part of our journey from 
London to Dover, we were instructed how copiously 
the English skies know how to pour down rain. Still, 
during intervals of the storm, and sometimes in spite 
of it, we explored various scenes and edifices. 

Gravesend, some twenty miles from the metropolis, 
could not be passed without a tender reference in our 
American hearts, to the daughter of Powhatan, the 
friend of Virginia's ancestors, — the cherished guest 
at Albion's court, — who here found a tomb, in 1617, 
at the age of twenty -two, when about to reembark with 
her husband and son, for her native clime. 

Those council-fires are quench'd, that erst so red, 

Mid western groves their midnight volume twined ; 
The red-brow'd king and stately chief are dead, — 

Nor remnant, nor memorial left behind. 
But thou, meek forest-princess, true of heart, 
When o'er our fathers waved destruction's dart, 

Shalt in their children's loving hearts be shrined. 
Pure, lonely star, o'er dark oblivion's wave, 
It is not meet thy name should moulder in the grave. 



ROCHESTER AND CANTERBURY CATHEDRALS. 227 

It required no great effort of the imagination, in 
looking across the river, to depict the masculine form 
of Queen Elizabeth, on horseback, at Tilbury Fort, 
and hear her stout Tudor voice enunciating to the 
shouting people, that though she was but a " woman 
she had the heart of a king, and a king of England 
too." 

Rochester Cathedral, the smallest of that class of 
edifices in the kingdom, bears decided marks of its 
early Saxon origin. It suffered considerably during 
the reign of William the First, and at the Reformation. 
The tombs and statues of Henry the Second and his 
queen, Matilda, are there, but we saw comparatively 
few monuments to the illustrious dead. 

Like a mountain did old Canterbury Cathedral 
tower up before us, through the dimness of twilight. 
More than five hundred feet in length, and its principal 
tower rising to nearly half that altitude, it is a con- 
spicuous object from every point of approach. Thomas 
a Beckett's ashes repose here, and in the western tran- 
sept is shown the spot where he met his death at the 
foot of the altar. Here are also monuments to Ed- 
ward, the Black Prince, Henry the Fourth and his 
queen, and a multitude of other distinguished persona- 
ges, both of ancient and modern times. 

The County of Kent is replete with interesting 
reminiscences. Its old name of Cantium, or Corner, 
bestowed upon it by Ca3sar, is explained by Camden from 
the circumstance of its stretching out in an angular 
form, and comprehending the south-eastern part of the 



228 THE PHAROS. 

island. Among its natural productions the culture of 
the hop has long been prominent. Quaint Michael 
Drayton exclaims: 

" famous Kent ! 
What county can this isle compare with thee ? 
Which hath within thyself all thou couldst wish, 
Habits and venison, fruits, hops, fowl, and fish," &c. 

And a more modern poet describes with greater par- 
ticularity this predominating vegetable. 

" On Cantium's hills, 
The flowery hop, with tendrils climbing round 
The tall, aspiring pole, bears its light head 
Aloft, in pendent clusters." 

The remains of the Pharos, on Castle Hill, furnish 
decided proof of Roman workmanship, though no in- 
contestible evidence can be adduced that it was erected 
by Julius Cossar, as the traditions of that region are 
fond of asserting. That Dover was fortified by the 
Romans, is admitted by the most discriminating histo- 
rians ; and its commanding situation caused it to be 
prized and maintained as a military station by the 
ancient Britons. In its towering cliffs, composed of 
chalk and flint stones, we were surprised to see 
such a variety of subterranean ways, magazines, and 
barracks for soldiers. The latter are capable of con- 
taining more than two thousand men, and are con- 
structed in the side of perpendicular precipices, to 



SHAKSPEARE CLIFF. 229 

which you ascend, by an internal winding staircase, 
some two hundred steps. Light and air are conveyed 
to them by well-like apertures in the chalk, or by 
openings on the face of the cliffs ; and an intelligent 
traveller has said, that " the chimneys, coming up forty 
feet through the mountain, shoot out their smoke as if 
they were the flues of some Cyclopean artificers, whose 
forges were in the bowels of the earth." 

Almost the whole of the three days spent in Dover 
were marked by wild winds and a tempest of rain. 
Our midnight music was the hoarse reverberations of 
the sea, — smiting and broken against the rocks that 
guard the coast. 

. On an evening promenade to the Shakspeare Cliff, 
somewhat overrating our powers of adhesion, we came 
near being swept, by a tremendous blast, into the boil- 
ing surges beneath. This rock, whose apex must be 
near six hundred feet, seems, even in its more accessi- 
ble heights, to utter the words of him whose name it 
bears, — 

" How fearful, 
And dizzy 'tis, to cast one's eyes so low ! 

Half way down, 
Hangs one who gathers samphire. Dreadful trade ! 
Methinks he seems no bigger than his head. 
Yon fishermen, that walk upon the beach, 
Appear as mice." 

Dover Castle and its reminiscences of the vigilance 
with which the English troops here kept watch and 



230 CARICATURE. 

ward against the threatened invasion of Napoleon the 
First, led one of our party to describe a caricature, exe- 
cuted at that period in London, which mightily delight- 
ed the people. Bonaparte is represented on the very 
verge of the coast of Calais, eagerly pointing a spy- 
glass towards the heights of Dover, where John Bull, 
in full military uniform, and with his usual portly 
figure, is perambulating at leisure. 

" Says Boney to Johnny, I 'm coming to Dover, 
Says Johnny to Boney, 't is doubted by some ; 
But, says Boney, what if I really come over ? 
Then, doubtless, says Johnny, you '11 be overcome." 

It was not without some misgivings, heightened, 
probably, by those November fogs and rains, which in 
the English clime make demands on the most elastic 
spirit, that we prepared to cross the angry Channel, 
and enter another foreign land. A discourse to which 
we listened in Trinity Church, the Sunday before 
leaving Dover, seemed to impart strength to our faith, 
both by its spirit and the passage on which it was 
founded, " Lord, to whom shall we go but unto Thee ? 
Thou hast the words of eternal life." 



Out on the Shakspeare cliff, and look below ! 
Seest thou the samphire-gatherer ? He no more 
Pursues his fearful trade, as when the eye 
Of Avon's bard descried him. But the height 
Is still as dizzy, and the ruffian winds 



DOVER. 231 

Come from their conflict with the raging seas 
So vengefully, that it is hard to hold 
A footing on the rock. 

The moon is forth 
In all her queenly plenitude, and scans 
The foaming channel with a look of peace 
But ill returned. For such a clamor reigns 
Between the ploughing waves and unyoked blasts, 
That the hoarse trumpet of the mariner 
Seems like the grass-bird's chirp. 

And yet 't is grand 
To gaze upon the mountain surge, and hear 
How loftily it hurls the challenge back 
To the chafed cloud, and feel yourself a speck, 
An atom, in His sight, who rules its wrath, — 
To whom the crush of all the elements 
Were but a bursting bubble. 

Cliffs of chalk, 
Old Albion's signal to the mariner, 
Encompass Dover, with their ramparts white, 
As in her vale, half-deafened by the surge, 
She croucheth down. Within their yielding breast, 
Deep excavations, and dark wreaths of smoke 
Mysterious, curling upward to the cloud, 
Reveal the soldier's home. 

With Roman pride 
The ancient Pharos, in its dotage, points 
To Cassar, and the castellated walls 
Of yon irregular fabric speak of war : — 
While France, who through the curtaining haze 
peers out 



232 VILLAGE FUNERAL. 

Faint on the far horizon, boasts how oft 
The bomb-fires blazed, and the tired sentinel 
Kept watch and ward against her warrior step, 
Or threatened wrath. 

Yet sweeter 't is to note 
The simple habitudes of rural life, 
Safe from such hurly 'twixt the sea and shore, 
As shreds the rock in fragments. 

Twining round 
Trellis or prop, or o'er the cottage wall 
"Weaving its wiry tendrils, interspersed 
"With the rough serrate leaf, profuse and dark, - 
The aromatic hop, the grape of Kent, 
Lifts its full clusters, of a paler green, 
Loved for the simple vintage. 

Many a tale 
Of interest and sympathy is rife 
Among the humble harvesters of Kent ; 
And one I heard, which I remember still. 
In a lone hamlet, the narrator said, 
I saw a funeral. Round the open grave 
'Gathered a band of thoughtful villagers, 
"While pressing nearest to its shelving brink, 
A slender boy of some few summers stood, 
Sole mourner, with a wild and wishful eye 
Fixed on the coffin. When they let it down 
Into the darksome pit, and the coarse earth 
From the grave-digger's shovel falling, gave 
A hollow sound, there rose such bitter wail, 
Prolonged and deep, as I had never heard 
Come from a child. 



ORPHAN BOY. 233 

Then he, who gave, with prayers, 
The body to the dust, when the last rite 
Was over, turned, with sympathizing look, 
And said : — 

" Poor boy, your mother will not sleep 
In this cold bed forever. No ! — as sure 
As the sweet flowers, which now the frost hath chilled, 
Shall hear the call of Spring, and the dry grass 
Put on fresh greenness, she shall rise again, 
And live a- life of joy." 

Bleak Autumn winds 
Swept through the rustling leaves, and seemed to 

pierce 
The shivering orphan, as he bowed him down 
All desolate, to look into the pit, 
Till from the group a kindly matron came, 
And led him thence. 

When Spring, returning, threw 
Her trembling colors o'er the wakened earth, 
I wandered there again. A timid step 
Fell on my ear, and that poor orphan child 
Came from his mother's grave. Paler he 'd grown 
Since last I saw him, and his little feet 
With frequent tread, had worn the herbage down 
To a deep, narrow path. He started thence, 
And would have fled away. But when I said 
That I had stood beside him while they put 
His mother in the grave, he nearer drew, 
Inquiring eagerly, — 

" Then did you hear 
The minister, who always speaks the truth, 



234 ORPHAN BOY. 

Say that she 'd rise again ? — that just as sure 
As Spring restored to life the grass and flowers, 
She would come back ? " 

" Yes, — But not here, my son ; 
Not to live here." 

" Yes, here, this is the spot 
Where she was laid. So here she '11 rise again, 
Just where they buried her. I marked it well, 
And night and morning, since the grass grew green, 
I've come to watch. Sometimes I press my lips 
Close to the place where they laid down her head, 
And call, and tell her that the flowers have come, 
And now 't is time to wake. See too the seeds 
I planted here ! seeds of the flowers she loved, 
Break the brown mould. But yet she does not come, 
Nor answer to my voice." 

" She cannot come 
To you, on earth, but you shall go to her." 

" I go to her ! and his thin hands were clasped 
So close, that every bone and sinew seemed 
Fast knit together. Shall I go to her ? 
Let me go now." 

Then, with a yearning heart, 
I told him of the Book that promiseth 
A resurrection, and eternal life 
To them who sleep in Jesus, — that the word 
Of God's unerring truth could ne'er deceive 
The trusting soul, that kept His holy law 
Obediently, and His appointed time 
With patience waited. 



OKPHAN BOY. 235 

" Oh I '11 wait His time, 
And try to do His will, if I may hope, 
After this body dies, to rise again, 
And live once more with mother." 

So he turned 
From that low grave, with such a piteous look 
Of soul subdued, and utter loneliness, 
As haunted memory, like a troubled dream. 

Time sped away, and when again I passed 
That quiet village, I inquired for him, 
And one who knew him told me how he prized 
The blessed Book, which teacheth that the dead 
Shall rise again, and o'er its pages hung 
Each leisure moment, with a wondering love, 
Until he learned of Jesus, and laid down 
All sorrow at his feet. 

But then there came 
A fearful sickness, and in many a cot 
Were children dead, and he grew ill, and bore 
His pain without complaint, and meekly died, 
And went to join the mother that he loved. 



CALAIS. 



CREST-fallen we came, 
And coldly dripping from the salt-sea wave, 
Into the gates of Calais. As our eye 
Turned backward, musing on the things that were, 
We thought of thee, Philippa, and thy tear 
Of intercession, and the joy it brought 
To mournful homes. 

Edward was fired with wrath. 

" Bring forth," he said, 
" The hostages, and let their death instruct 
This contumacious city." 

Forth they came, 
The rope about their necks, — those patriot men, 
Who nobly chose an ignominious doom 
To save their country's blood. Famine and toil 
And the long siege had worn them to the bone ; 
Yet from their eye spoke that heroic soul 
Which scorns the body's ill. Father and son 
Stood side by side, and youthful forms were there, 
By kindred linked, for whom the sky of life 
Was bright with love. Yet no repining sigh 



CALAIS. 237 

Darkened their hour of fate. Well had they taxed 
The midnight thought, and nerved the wearied arm, 
While months and seasons thinned their wasting ranks. 
The harvest failed, the joy of vintage ceased, — 
Vine-dresser and grape-gather manned the walls, 
And when they sank with hunger, others came, 
Of cheek more pale, perchance, but strong at heart. 
Yet still those spectres poured their arrow-flight, 
Or hurled the deadly stone, while at the gates 
The conqueror of Cressy sued in vain. 
•' Lead them to die ! " he bade. 

In nobler hearts 
There was a throb of pity for the foe 
So fallen and so unblenching ; yet none dared 
Meet that fierce temper with the word, forgive ! 

Who comes, with hasty step and flowing robe, 

And hair so slightly bound ? The Queen ! the Queen ! 

An earnest pity on her lifted brow, 

Tears in her azure eye, like drops of light. 

What seeks she with such fervid eloquence ? 

Life for the lost ! And ever as she fears 

Her suit in vain, more wildly heaves her breast, 

In secrecy of prayer, to save her lord 

From cruelty so dire, and from the pangs 

Of late remorse. At first, the strong resolve 

Curled on his lip, and raised his haughty head, 

While every firm-set muscle prouder swelled 

To iron rigor. Then his flashing eye 

Rested upon her, till its softened glance 



238 CALAIS. 

Confessed contagion from her tenderness, 
As with a manly and chivalrous grace 
The boon he gave. 

Oh woman ! ever seek 
A victory like this ; with heavenly warmth 
Still melt the icy purpose, still preserve 
From error's path the heart that thou dost fold 
Close in thine own pure love. Yes, ever be 
The advocate of mercy, and the friend 
Of those whom all forsake ; so may thy prayer 
In thine adversity, be heard of Him, 
Who multiplies to pardon. 

Should any one chance to have crossed the Atlantic 
without learning the full import of the compound word 
seasickness, he can obtain thorough elementary in- 
struction on the Channel between England and France. 
Especially, if he embark, like us, ere a long and fierce 
storm has subsided, he may find a kind of teaching 
which every nerve in his body will register on its tab- 
let, while memory remains. 

The regular government-steamer declining to put 
forth, on account of stress of weather, we being wearied 
with our stay at Dover, were induced to take passage 
in a small private boat, which proved scarcely sea- 
worthy. Our original party, of Bishop Williams and 
his mother, young Mr. W. E. Imlay and myself, had 
acquired the agreeable addition of Rev. Dr. Woods, 
President of Bowdoin College, and Hon. J. Dixon and 



PASSAGE TO CALAIS. 239 

his fair young bride, whose course of united life, so 
strikingly bright and beautiful, had this stormy pre- 
lude. 

We had not proceeded far on the troubled deep, ere 
the billows broke over us, and opening seams admitted 
an abundance of petty rills. Our poor little craft 
seemed the scorn both of sea and sky, — tossed up by 
one, and beaten back by the other. Driven by winds, 
and gorged with brine, it ran its terrible gauntlet, reel- 
ing and groaning at the stroke of every new surge. 

The attitudes of the voyagers defied the pencil's 
power. There were no couches to fall upon, it being a 
day-boat, and having but little available space of any 
kind. One passenger, drenched to the skin, burst into 
peals of hysterical laughter ; another, the bearer of 
French despatches, exclaimed, at every fresh ablution, 
" Sacre Dieu ! " and leaped like a roasted chestnut. I 
had taken refuge, by permission, below, in a kind of 
cabin, or rubbish-hole, where was a rickety lounge, cov- 
ered with cast-off garments. Thither ran the sailors, 
unconscious of a stranger's proximity, to get a drink of 
brandy, swearing that we should all go to the bottom. 
Thither came the captain, thrusting into the gaping 
crevices whatever of a pliant nature he could lay his 
hand upon. At length, seizing his large cyphering- 
slate, he drove, with tremendous force, nails through its 
frame, to oppose the progress of a leak. Yet, amid 
all our helplessness and peril, did the good Lord deliver 
us. Praise to His mercy. 



240 TRAVELLING IN FRANCE. 

Most grateful were we to find stable footing on the 
Gallic shore ; and after the usual examinations at the 
custom-house, and obtaining new passports, ordered a 
comfortable fire for our chilled limbs, and conversed 
with varied emotions, on what we had endured amid 
those wrathful Straits of Dover, "mounting up to the 
heavens, going down again to the depths, our souls 
melted because of trouble." 

It was not until the evening of the following day, 
that we felt sufficiently reinstated to make trial of the 
movements of a French diligence. At the hour of 
nine, off set the cumbrous machine, drawn by five 
horses, carrying in the coupe three persons, in the in- 
terieur six, in the rear compartment three, and on the 
top an unknown number, beside the conducteur and his 
compagnon. 

The country in the vicinity of Calais is flat, the 
roads drained by a kind of canal on each side, and 
planted with clumsy trees. These were partially de- 
nuded, but the verdure of the fields was deep and 
bright as in Summer. The processes of agriculture 
seemed rude, and the ploughs of an awkward construc- 
tion, mounted on wheels. Frequent stacks of grain 
and hay told of a plentiful harvest, and here and there 
the scathed grape-vine climbed with its crisp tendril to 
the eves, or over the tiled roof of some lowly dwelling. 
Many of the hovels were miserably planted in the 
midst of an expanse of mud, in which the poor peas- 
ants paddled whenever they stepped from the doors. 



ARRIVAL AT PARIS. 241 

We looked in vain for the white cottages of England, 
so beautiful with their trim hedges and lingering blos- 
soms. 

At St. Omers, a fortified town of gloomy aspect, 
where we stopped a few minutes for refreshment, we 
were first initiated into the terrible mendicity of 
France. Every age and condition of suffering human- 
ity beset us, and cried at every crevice of our vehicle 
with the most piteous and persevering tones. 

Being fatigued with sitting twenty hours in the dili- 
gence, with scarcely an opportunity to change our 
position, we decided to rest at Amiens for a night and 
day. We visited the cathedral, which is a grand, im- 
posing building, both in architecture and decorations, 
heard the regular daily service performed, and saw 
many superb monuments and shrines, before which 
candles were perpetually burning. At seven in the 
evening, we recommenced another journey of twenty 
hours, stopping only a few moments at Clermont, at 
three in the morning. The moon occasionally pierc- 
ing the clouds reflected the shadow of our ludicrous 
and rumbling equipage, like a house on wheels, drawn 
sometimes by six, and at others by seven horses, over 
wet and heavy roads ; and delighted were we when, 
at the Hotel Meurice, opposite the gardens of the 
Tuileries, we found refreshment and repose. 

'T was pleasant thus to see the vales of France, 
Green as tho' Summer's spirit linger'd there, 
1G 



242 paris. 

Tho' the crisp vine-leaf told its Autumn-tale, 

While the brown windmills spread their flying arms 

To every fickle breeze. The singing-girl 

Awoke her light guitar, and featly danced 

To her own madrigals ; but the low hut 

Of the poor peasant seemed all comfortless, 

And his harsh-featured wife, made swarth by toils 

Unfeminine, with no domestic smile 

Cheered her sad children, plunging their dark feet 

Deep in the miry soil. 

At intervals 
Widely disjoined, where clustering roofs arose, 
The cry of shrill mendicity went up, 
And at each window of our vehicle, 
Hand, hat, and basket thrust, and the wild eye 
Of clamorous children, eager for a coin, 
Assailed our every pause. At first, the pang 
Of pity moved us, and we vainly wished 
For wealth to fill each meagre hand with gold ; 
But oft besought, suspicion steeled the heart, 
And 'neath the guise of poverty, we deemed 
Vice or deception lurked. So on we passed 
Save when an alms some white-haired form implored, 
Bowed down with age; or some pale, pining babe, 
Froze into silence by its misery, 
Clung to the sickly mother. On we passed, 
In homely diligence, like cumbrous house, 
Tripartite and well-peopled, its lean steeds 
Rope-harnessed and grotesque, while the full moon 



ARRIVAL AT PARIS. 243 

Silvered our weary caravan, that wrought 
Untiring, night and day, until the towers 
Of fair St. Denis, where the garnered dust 
Of many a race' of Gallic monarchs sleeps, 
Gleamed through the misty morning, and we gained 
The gates of Paris. 



OBELISK OF LUXOR. 



Among the conspicuous objects that in Paris, by 
their number and beauty, astonish the stranger, he will 
find himself early attracted to the ancient obelisk of 
Luxor. A single shaft of red sienite, it is covered 
with hieroglyphics, most of which refer to Sesostris, 
during whose reign it was originally erected. 

It finds its new home . in the Place la Concorde, 
known during the reign of the Bourbons, as the Place 
Louis Fifteenth, and christened in the time of terror 
the Place de la Revolution. Fearful baptisms of blood 
has that spot known, from the trampling down of thou- 
sands, in the fatal rush at the marriage festival of Louis 
Sixteenth, to the sad spectacle of his own decapitation, 
and that of the throng who night and day fed the guil- 
lotine. In the two years that succeeded his death, 
more than two thousand persons, of both sexes, were 
executed here, until it was said, that the soil, pampered 
with its terrible aliment, rose up, and burst open, and 
refused to be trodden down like other earth. 

In such good preservation is this relic of antiquity 
and art, that the mind is slow in believing that nearly 



OBELISK OF LUXOR. 245 

three thousand four hundred years have elapsed since 
it was first placed in front of the great temple of Thebes, 
the modern Luxor. It was given, with another of the 
same size, by the Viceroy of Egypt to the French gov- 
ernment. But such were the difficulties to be over- 
come in its transportation, that the removal of its part- 
ner has never been attempted. The labor of taking it 
down, and conveying it to the banks of the Nile, occu- 
pied eight hundred men for three months. A road had 
to be constructed, and a vessel built on purpose to 
receive it. The latter was obliged to be sawn off ver- 
tically, to accommodate the ponderous passenger, which 
performed its voyage with peril. Three years after 
its separation from its original site it arrived in Paris, 
and in three more years, by the most ingenious and 
powerful machinery, its final elevation in its new home 
was effected. It stands on a pedestal of granite in the 
midst of an eliptical plateau, paved with asphaltum. 
Two magnificent fountains throw up their silver waters, 
which fall, with a pleasant sound, into vast circular ba- 
sins incrusted with marble ; while Tritons and Nereids, 
attended by swans and dolphins, hasten to welcome the 
wonderful guest. Colossal statues stand around in their 
majesty, to do it honor ; hoary Ocean, — the classic Med- 
iterranean, — Agriculture soliciting the gifts of earth, — 
Commerce gathering riches from the sea, — and Astron- 
omy with her soul among the stars. Personifications 
of the Rhine and the Rhone, with the Genii of Flow- 
ers and Fruits, of Vintage and of the Harvest, express 



246 OBELISK OF LUXOR. 

the hospitalities of France. Old Egypt rests among 
them and is satisfied. 



Thou here ! What but a miracle could tear 

Thee from thine old and favorite spot of birth ? 
And o'er the wave thy ponderous body bear, 
Making thee thus at home in foreign earth ? 
While countless throngs with curious glance regard 
Thy strange and sanguine face, with hieroglyphic? 
scarred. 

Thou hadst a tedious voyage, I suppose, 

Sea-sickness and rough rocking, — was it so ? 
Thou wert as Jonah to the mariners, 

I understand, and wrought them mickle woe ; 
And when the port was reached, they feared with pain 
Thou ne'er would'st raise thy head, or be thyself again. 

Dost think thy brother Monolinth will dare, 

Like thee, the dangers of the deep to meet ? 
I learn he has the viceroy's leave to take 
The tour, his'education to complete : 
Thy warm, fraternal heart right glad would be 
Here, in this stranger-land, his honest face to see. 

What canst thou tell us ? thou whose wond'rous date 
Doth more than half our planet's birthdays meas- 
ure ! 

Saw'st thou Sesostris, in his regal state, 

Euling the conquered nations at his pleasure ? 



OBELISK OF LUXOR. 247 

And are those stories true, by History told, 

Of hundred-gated Thebes, with all her power and gold ? 

Didst hear how hard the yoke of bondage pressed 

On Israel's chosen race, by Nilus' strand ? 
And how the awful seer, with words of flame, 
Did in the presence of the tyrant stand, 
When with dire plagues the hand of Heaven was red, 
And stiff-necked Egypt shrieked o'er all her first-born 
dead ? 

Tell us who built the pyramids, — and why 

They took such pains those famous tombs to rear. 
Yet chanced at last to let their names slip by, 
And drown in dark oblivion's waters drear ; 
Paris, though so polite, can scarce restrain 
A smile at such mistake and toil, for honors vain. 

Didst e'er attend a trial of the dead ? 

Pray, tell us where the judges held their seat ; 
And touch us just the key-note of the tune, 

Which statuedMemnon breathed, the morn to greet ; 
Or sing of Isis' priests the vesper-chime; 
Or doth thy memory fail beneath the weight of time ? 

How little did'st thou dream, in youth, to be 

So great a traveller in thy hoary years, 
And here, in lilied France, to take thy stand, 
The silvery fountains playing round thine ears, 
And groves and gardens stretching 'neath thy feet, 
Where sheds the lingering sun his parting lustres sweet. 



248 OBELISK OF LUXOR. 

Yet beautiful thou art in majesty, 

As ancient oracle, from Delphic shrine, 
Which by the Ocean cast on foreign shore, 
Claims worship for its mysteries divine ; 
And Egypt hath been prodigally kind, 
Such noble gift to send, to keep her love in mind. 

The earth whereon thou standest hath been red 

And saturate with blood, and at the rush 
Of those who came to die, hath quaked with dread, 
As though its very depths did shrink and blush, 
Like Eden's soil, when first the purple tide 
It drank with shuddering lip, and to its Maker cried. 

Be as a guardian to this new-found home, 

That fondly wooed thee o'er the billows blue, 
For 't were a pity sure, to come so far, 

And know so much, and yet no good to do : — 
So, from the " Place la Concorde," blot the shame, 
And bid it lead a life more worthy of its name. 



PERE LA CHAISE. 



That portion of Mont Louis which is appropriated 
to the most beautiful of the four cemeteries, in the 
neighborhood of Paris, was originally a part of the 
garden and pleasure-grounds of Pere la Chaise, the 
favorite confessor of Louis the Fourteenth, and Mad- 
ame de Maintenon. It covers nearly one hundred 
acres, and its mixture of funereal foliage and flowers, 
with the monuments of the dead, is picturesque and 
imposing. Yet it is less touching in its effect on the 
feelings, than the labyrinthine solitudes of Mount 
Auburn, or the sweet spot where the dead repose at 
Laurel Hill, on the green margin of the Schuylkill, or 
the still more perfect Greenwood. Forty years have 
not elapsed since it was set apart for this sacred ser- 
vice. The first corpse was laid here on the 21st of 
May, 1804 ; since which, in a period of thirty-six years, 
there have been more than one hundred thousand 
interments, and sixteen thousand monuments erected. 
These are in every diversified form, of column, urn, 
and altar, pyramid, obelisk, and sepulchral chapel ; 
many of them surrounded by enclosures, within which 



250 MONUMENTS. 

are plants, and flowering shrubs, and seats for mourn- 
ing friends, when they visit the departed. 

The monument to Abelard and Heloise, is of Gothic 
architecture, and constructed from the ruins of the 
abbey of the Paraclete. Its form is a parallelogram, 
fourteen feet by eleven, and twenty-four in height. A 
pinnacle, twelve feet in elevation, rises from the cen- 
tre of the roof, and four smaller ones, finely sculptured, 
ornament the corners. It has fourteen columns, six 
feet in height, with rich capitals, and the arches which 
they support are surmounted by cornices wrought with 
flowers. The four pediments are decorated with bas- 
reliefs, roses, and medallions. The statues of Heloise 
and Abelard are recumbent within, and literally 
heaped with garlands. Their bones repose in the vault 
beneath ; those of Abelard having been removed from 
the priory of St. Marcel, where he died in 1142, and 
those of Heloise, who survived him about twenty years, 
from the Paraclete, of which she was abbess. 

The tomb of the unfortunate Madame Blanchard. 
who fell a victim to her aeronautic ardor, is surmounted 
by a globe in flames. The inventor of gas-lights is 
also honored by a gilded flame issuing from an urn. 
On the monument of the benevolent Abbe Sicard, rise 
six beautifully sculptured marble hands, each forming, 
with its fingers, one of the letters of his name, accord- 
ing to the manual alphabet of the deaf and dumb, his 
indebted and affectionate pupils. On the tomb of 
Gretry, the musical composer, hangs a lyre, and on 
that of La Fontaine sits very composedly a black fox, 



MONUMENTS. 251 

while two bas-reliefs, in bronze, represent, one his 
fable of the wolf and stork, the other that of the wolf 
and lamb. Parmentier, to whom France owed the 
general cultivation of the potato, has an elegant mon- 
ument, and Denon, the traveller, a pedestal surmounted 
by his statue, in bronze. Deeply shaded by lime trees, 
is a tomb in the form of a cottage, where reposes Fred- 
eric Mestezart, the beloved pastor of a church in 
Geneva ; and the Russian Countess Demidoff is inter- 
red beneath a superb temple of the richest white mar- 
ble, supported by ten columns, having in the interior a 
recumbent statue on an altar-tomb, with her arms and 
coronet. From the tomb of La Place rises an obelisk, 
crowned with an urn, and ornamented by a star and 
palm branches, encircling inscriptions and eulogies on 
his works. A splendid sepulchral chapel, surmounted 
by a temple, is erected to the memory of General Foy, 
whose statue is represented in the act of harano-uino- 
the people. The military taste of France is seen in 
the pomp and lavish expense with which the sepul- 
chres of her chiefs are adorned. Marshal Davoust has 
a pyramid of granite ; Massena, one of white marble, 
twenty-one feet in height ; Le Fevre, a magnificent 
sarcophagus, where two figures of Fame are crowning 
his bust, and a serpent, the emblem of immortality, 
encircling his sword ; while Ney, the " bravest of the 
brave," sleeps unmarked, save by a single cypress. 

It was not without surprise that I found so many 
from my own dear land, in this receptacle of the dead. 
Five States, — New York, Pennsylvania, Massachusetts, 



252 MONUMENTS. 

Connecticut and Tennessee, — have sent a delegation of 
their sons and daughters to the sepulchres of a foreign 
clime. The names of each, though almost all person- 
ally unknown, touched the chords of tender sympathy, 
as if for a relative or friend. One of these, for many 
years a resident in Boston, though a native of Portu- 
gal, will awaken the affectionate recollections of some 
who knew and respected her. 

Died, 

March 1st, 1832, 

Frances Ann, 

Countess Colonna de Walewski, 

Widow of the late General Humphreys, 

of the United States, 

Minister in Spain and Portugal. 

Trees and shrubs of slight root and rapid growth, 
adorn that part of the cemetery which is appropriated 
to the common people. They are buried in temporary 
graves, the better class of which may be held for ten 
years by a payment of fifty francs, after which term 
they are revertible to the cemetery, even though mon- 
uments should have been erected upon them. The 
other class, or the fosses communes, are where the poor 
are gratuitously buried in coffins laid side by side, with- 
out any intervening space. This spot is reopened and 
buried over again every five years; that period of 
time being allowed for the decomposition of the bodies. 
The wooden crosses, which designate the respective 



GRAVES OF THE POOR. 253 

graves, have occasionally an inscription, touching from 
its simplicity. One commemorates 

" Pauvre Marie ! 
A 29 ans." 

The truth of the pathetic sentiment of the Bard of the 
" Country Church Yard," — 

" For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, 
This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned 1 " 

is illustrated by many simple plants, little borders of 
box, and similar fragile decorations of the temporary 
graves of the humble dead. 



I stood amid the dwellings of the dead 

And saw the gayest city of the earth 

Spread out beneath me. Cloud and sunlight lay 

Upon her palaces and gilded domes, 

In slumbrous beauty. Through the streets flowed on. 

In ceaseless stream, gay equipage and throng, 

As fashion led the way. Look up ! look up ! 

Mont Louis hath a beacon. Wheresoe'er 

Ye seem to tend, so lightly dancing on 

In your enchanted maze, a secret spell 

Is on your footsteps, and unseen they haste 

Where ye would not, and whence ye ne'er return. 

Blind pilgrims are we all ! We close our eyes 

On the swift torrent that o'erwhelms our race, 

And in our spanlike path the goal forget, 



254 PERE LA CHAISE. 

Until the shadows lengthen, and we sink 
To rise no more. 

Methinks the monster, Death, 
Wears not such visage here, so grim and gaunt 
With terror, as he shows in other lands. 
Robing himself in sentiment, he wraps 
His dreary trophies in a veil of flowers, 
And makes his tombs like temples, or a home 
So sweet to love, that grief doth fleet away. 
— I saw a mother mourning. The fair tomb 
Was like a little chapel, hung with wreath, 
And crucifix. And there she spread the toys 
That her lost babe had loved, as if she found 
Sad solace in the memory of its sports. 
Tears flowed like pearl-drops, yet without the pang 
That wrings and rends the heart-strings. It would 

seem 
A tender sorrow, scarce of anguish born, 
So much the influence of surrounding charms 
Did mitigate it. 

Mid the various groups 
That visited the dead, I marked the form 
Of a young female winding through the shades. 
Just at that point she seemed, where childhood melts 
But half away, as snows that feel the sun, 
Yet shrinking closer to their shaded nook, 
Delay to swell the sparkling stream of youth. 
She had put off her sabots at the gate, 
Heavy with clay, and to a new-made grave 
Hasted alone. Upon its wooden cross 



PERE LA CHAISE. 255 

She placed her chaplet, and with whispering lips, 
Perchance in prayer, perchance in converse low 
With the loved slumberer, knelt, and strewed the 

seeds 
Of flowers among the mould. A shining mass 
Of raven tresses 'scaped amid the toil 
From their accustomed boundary ; but her eyes, 
None saw them, for she heeded not the tread 
Of passers-by. Her business was with those 
Who slept below. 'T would seem a quiet grief, 
And yet absorbing ; such as a young heart 
Might for a sister feel, ere it had learned 
A deeper love. 

Come to yon stately dome, 
With arch and turret, every shapely stone 
Breathing the legends of the Paraclete, 
Where slumber Abelard and Heloise, 
'Neath such a world of wreaths, that scarce ye see 
Their marble forms, recumbent, side by side. 
On ! on ! — this populous spot hath many a fane, 
To win the stranger's admiration. See 
La Fontaine's fox-crowned cenotaph ; and his 
Whose " Mecanique Celeste" hath writ his name 
Among the stars ; and hers who, soaring high 
In silken globe, found a strange death by fire 
Amid the clouds. 

The dead of distant lands 
Are gathered here. In pomp of sculpture sleeps 
The Russian Demidoff; and Britain's sons 
Have crossed the foaming sea, to leave their dust 



256 FERE LA CHAISE. 

In a strange soil. Yea, from my own far home 
They 've wandered here to die. Were there not 

graves 
Enough among our forests ? by the marge 
Of our broad streams ? amid the hallowed mounds 
Of early kindred ? that ye needs must come 
This weary way, to share the strangers' bed, 
My people ? I could weep to find ye here ! 
And yet your names are sweet, the words ye grave 
In the loved language of mine infancy, 
Most pleasant to the eye, involved so long 
Mid foreign idioms. 

Yonder height doth boast 
The warrior-chiefs, who led their legions on 
To sack and siege ; whose heavy tramp disturbed 
The Cossack in his hut, the Alpine birds 
"Who build above the cloud, and Egypt's slaves, 
Crouching beneath their sky-crowned pyramids. 
How silent are they all ! No warning trump 
Amid their host ! no steed ! no frantic foot 
Of those who rush to battle ! Haughtily 
The aspiring marble tells each passing group 
Their vaunted fame. Oh, shades of mighty men ! 
Went these proud honors with you, where the spear 
And shield resound no more ? Cleaves the blood- 
stain 
Around ye there? Steal the deep-echoing groans 
Of those who fell, the cry of those who mourned, 
Across the abyss that bars you from our sight, 
Waking remorseful pangs ? 



PERE LA CHAISE. 257 

We may not ask 
With hope of answer. But the time speeds on, 
When all shall know. 

There is the lowly haunt, 
Where rest the poor. No towering obelisk 
Beareth their name. No blazoned tablet tells 
Their joys or sorrows. Yet 't is- sweet to muse 
Around their pillow of repose, and think 
That Nature mourns their loss, though man forget. 
The lime-tree and acacia, side by side, 
Spring up, in haste to do their kindly deed 
Of sheltering sympathy, as though they knew 
Their time was short. 

Sweet Nature ne'er forgets 
Her buried sons, but cheers their Summer couch 
With turf and dew-drops, bidding Autumn's hand 
Drop lingering garlands of its latest leaves, 
And glorious Spring from Wintry thraldom burst, 
To bring their type of Immortality. 



17 



RETURN OF THE ASHES OF NAPOLEON. 



We considered ourselves fortunate to have been in 
Paris at the time of the return of the ashes of Napo- 
leon ; a pageant which so many came from distant 
climes expressly to witness. Twelve of us, Americans, 
obtained, by seasonable negotiation, an apartment, with 
large windows, in the Champs Elysees, near the Arc 
de Triomphe, from whence to view the scene. Thither 
we drove, immediately after an early breakfast ; yet 
even then it was difficult, and almost alarming, to ven- 
ture through the immense crowd. 

It was on the morning of Tuesday, December loth, 
1840, that this unparalleled event took place. The 
atmosphere was intensely cold. That night the Seine 
froze entirely over, bridging with crystal the last 
march of the silent conqueror. The streets were lined 
by soldiers, standing immovable as statues. Through 
their avenue, came in procession, hundreds of thou- 
sands of the finest cavalry and infantry, in all the daz- 
zling hues of costume and military pomp. The ab- 
sence of martial music, and the rapidity of their move- 
ment, on account of the singular severity of the weath- 
er, produced a strange illusion, like the rushing of some 



THE FROCESSION. 259 

splendid and terrific vision. The lofty and gilded car, 
that bore the remains of the hero, was drawn by six- 
teen horses, with white plumes, and caparisoned in 
cloth of gold. Upon it stood some distinguished per- 
sonages, among whom I recognized the venerable Mar- 
shal Soult. It was said there were 350,000 men under 
arms, and more than a million of people in the streets. 

This welcome of the illustrious dead, back from an 
exile's tomb, to the place of his old, imperial throne, 
was imposing and mournful beyond description. Yet 
there was no demonstration of enthusiasm on the part 
of the populace, as the funeral procession of their idol- 
ized hero passed onward. The sight of a majestic war- 
horse, without a rider, following at slow and solemn 
pace, the gorgeous car, awoke something like a burst 
of sympathy. The thrilling heart made no chronolo- 
gical computation, nor paused to realize, that from the 
lapse of years he could never have borne to battle the 
master for whom he thus seemed to mourn. 

Every spectator was impressed by the dignity of 
manner, and the fitness of the few words of Louis 
Philippe, when he received the remains of the mighty 
dead. The Prince de Joinville, who had been com- 
missioned to bring the bones of Bonaparte from St. 
Helena, said, " Sire, I present you the ashes of the 
Emperor." And the king answered, " I receive them 
in the name of the French people." 

The music of the grand and elaborate requiem, per- 
formed at these obsequies, was immediately destroyed, 
to preclude its repetition on any other occasion. 



260 CHAPEL OF THE INVALIDS. 

The chapel belonging to the Hotel des Invalided, 
■where the bones of Bonaparte reposed in state for a 
fortnight, was continually visited by hundreds of thou- 
sands, with unabated curiosity. It was lighted only 
by small lamps from above, so arranged as to cast a 
tremulous ray amid the darkness that reigned around, 
making day and night the same, and heightening the 
solemnity of the scene. Magnificent hangings of pur- 
ple velvet, studded with massy golden bees, were taste- 
fully disposed at the entrance, while the banners of 
Austerlitz, and many other battles, were wreathed 
around the lofty columns, and shadowed the coffin of 
him who had won them. Our visit was on the last 
morning before the interment, when none were admit- 
ted but peers, and such as could obtain peers' medals. 
There, in groups, might be seen some of the ancient 
regime, whose memories extended to the times of 
unbroken royalty, when the blood of sixty kings 
flowed peacefully in the veins of Louis the Sixteenth, 
and others whose friends had perished under the 
guillotine, or in the prisons of the revolution. Around 
the coffin, on whose sides the initial iV was deeply 
sunk in gold, incessantly paced, with measured tread, 
the scarred and wrinkled soldiers, keeping guard over 
the garnered ashes of him who was both their glory 
and their bane. From an altar in the recess arose the 
chanted strain of the priests ; but a deeper voice in the 
heart said, that all the pride of man was dust, and asked 
what would be the glory of the warrior, when God 
judgeth the soul. 



THE RETURN OF NAPOLEON. 2G1 

Ho ! City of the gay ! 

Paris ! what festal rite 
Doth call thy thronging millions forth 

All eager for the sight ? 
Thy soldiers line the streets 

In fixed and stern array, 
With buckled helm and bayonet, 

As on the battle-day. 

By square, and fountain side, 

Heads in dense masses rise, 
And tower, and battlement, and tree, 

Are studded thick with eyes. 
Comes there some conqueror home 

In triumph from the fight, 
With spoil and captives in his train, 

The trophies of his might ? 

The " Arc de Triomphe " glows ! 

A martial host are nigh, 
France pours in long succession forth 

Her pomp of chivalry. 
No clarion marks their way, 

No victor trump is blown ; 
Why march they on so silently, 

Told by their tread alone ? 

Behold ! in glittering show, 

A gorgeous car of state ! 
The white-plumed steeds in cloth of gold, 

Bow down beneath its weight ; 



262 THE RETURN OF NAPOLEON. 

And the noble war-horse, led 

Caparisoned along, 
Seems fiercely for his lord to ask, 

As his red eye scans the throng. 

Who rideth on yon car ? 

The incense flaineth high, — 
Comes there some demi-god of old ? 

No answer ! — no reply ! 
Who rideth on yon car ? — 

No shout his minions raise, 
But by a lofty chapel dome 

The muffled hero stays. 

A king is standing there, 

And with uncovered head 
Receives him in the name of France, 

Receiveth whom ? — the Dead ! 
Was he not buried deep 

In island-cavern drear, 
Girt by the sounding ocean surge ? 

How came that sleeper here ? 

Was there no rest for him 

Beneath a peaceful pall, 
That thus he breaks his stony tomb, 

Ere the strong angel's call ? 
Hark ! hark ! the requiem swells, 

A deep, soul-thrilling strain ! 
An echo, never to be heard 

By mortal ear again. 



THE RETURN OF NAPOLEOX. 263 

A requiem for the chief, 

Whose fiat millions slew, 
The soaring, eagle of the Alps, 

The crushed at Waterloo, 
The banished who returned, 

The dead who rose again, 
And rode in his shroud the billows proud, 

To the sunny banks of Seine. 

They laid him there in state, 

That warrior strong and bold, 
The imperial crown, with jewels bright, 

Upon his ashes cold ; 
While round those columns proud 

The blazoned banners wave, 
That on a hundred fields he won, 

With the heart's-blood of the brave. 

And sternly there kept guard 

His veterans scarred and old, 
Whose wounds of Lodi's cleaving bridge, 

Or purple Leipsic told. 
Yes, there, with arms reversed, 

Slow pacing, night and day, 
Close watch beside the coffin kept 

Those veterans grim and gray. 

A cloud is on their brow, — 

Is it sorrow for the dead? 
Or memory of the fearful strife, 

Where their country's legions fled ? 



264 THE RETURN OF NAPOLEON. 

Of Borodino's blood ? 

Or Beresina's wail ? 
The horrors of that dire retreat, 

Which turned old History pale ? 

A cloud is on their brow, — 

Is it sorrow for the dead ? 
Or a shuddering at the wintry shaft 

By Russian tempests sped ? 
Where countless mounds of snow 

Marked the poor conscripts' grave, 
And pierced by frost and famine, sank 

The bravest of the brave. 

A thousand trembling lamps 

The gathered darkness mock, 
And velvet drapes his hearse, who died 

On bare Helena's rock ; 
And from the altar near, 

A never-ceasing hymn 
Is lifted by the chanting priests 

Beside the taper dim. 

Mysterious One, and proud ! 

In the land where shadows reign, 
Hast thou met the flocking ghosts of those 

Who at thy nod were slain ? 
Oh, when the cry of that spectral host, 

Like a rushing blast shall be, 
What will thine answer be to them ? 

And what thy God's to thee ? 



TOMB OF JOSEPHINE. 



The monument to Josephine, in the village church 
at Ruel, was erected by her children. Two hands, 
sculptured in marble, and grasping each other, appear 
as the symbols of their united filial love ; and only this 
simple inscription marks the stone : — 

To Josephine, 
From Eugene and Hortense. 

It is well known that her love to Napoleon survived 
the divorce to which he exacted her consent. In her 
seclusion, she rejoiced at his prosperity, or wept at the 
evils which his ambition drew upon him. One of our 
own writers has condensed, in a few forcible sentences, 
the sequel of her life. 

" When his son was born, she only regretted that 
she was not near him in his happiness ; and when he 
was sent to Elba, she begged that she might be per- 
mitted to share his prison, and cheer his woes. Every 
article that he had used at her residence, remained as 
he had left it. She would not suffer a chair on which 
he had sat to be removed. The book in which he had 



266 CHARACTER OF JOSEPHINE. 

last been reading was there, with the page doubled 
down: The pen which he had last used was there, 
.with the ink dried on its point. When death drew 
nigh, she wished to sell all her jewels, that she might 
send the fallen Emperor money. She died before his 
return from Elba ; but her last thoughts were of him 
and France ; her last words expressed the hope and 
belief, that ' she had never caused a single tear to flow.' 
Her body was followed to the grave, in the village 
church of Ruel, not alone by princes and generals, but 
by two thousand poor, whose hearts had been made 
glad by her bounty." 

It is well known that Napoleon felt his fortunes had 
declined after his divorce from Josephine. He assert- 
ed that the star of destiny was never favorable to him 
after that event. This he repeated more than once, 
during his humiliation at St. Helena, with a bitterness 
if not of remorse, at least of deep desolation, which it 
would have been the joy of her affectionate nature to 
have soothed and comforted. 

He must surely have been master of many attrac- 
tions, thus to create an affection so strong in a heart so 
pure ; and touching is this instance of woman's con- 
stancy, that could thus "love through all things." 



She, who o'er earth's most polished clime 
The empress-crown did wear, 

Who touched the zenith-point of power, 
The nadir of despair, 



TOMB OF JOSEPHINE. 267 

With all her charms and all her wrongs, 

Beneath this turf doth rest, 
Where fondly spring two clasping hands, 

To guard her pulseless breast. 

Say, did his love, who ruled her heart, 

This fair memorial rear, 
And soothe the unrequited shade 

With late, remorseful tear ? 

Came he, with sweet funereal flowers 

To deck her couch of gloom, 
And like repentant Athens bless 

The guiltless martyr's tomb ? 

No ! — cold Ambition's selfish soul, 

With rash and ingrate tone, 
Abjured the gentle hand that paved 

His pathway to a throne : 

While Fortune's star indignant paled, 

And hid its guiding ray, 
As madly from his side he thrust 

That changeless friend away. 

Yet she to her secluded cell 

No vengeful passion bore, 
Nor harshly blamed his broken vows, 

Who sought her smile no more ; 



268 TOMB OF JOSEPHINE. 

Still o'er the joys of earlier years, 

With tender spirit hung, 
And mourned, when sorrow o'er his path 

A blighting shadow flung ; 

Gave thanks, if victory's meteor-wreath 
His care-worn temples bound, 

And in the blessings of the poor, 
Her only solace found. 

And so she died, and here she sleeps, 
This village-fane below ; — 

Sweet is the memory of a life 
That caused no tear to flow. 



THE PRESENTATION. 



Put on your best, my countrymen, and turn 

Your steeds toward the palace. You can have 

No just objection to a call, I trust, 

Upon the king and queen. For though you 're all 

Such staunch republicans, 't is plain to see 

You 've quite a curiosity to know 

How those who wear a crown deport themselves. 

Well, there 's no harm in that. 

But what a show 
Our sober, unambitious gentry make 
In regimentals, with their laced chapeaus, 
En militaire ! I'm sure the friends at home 
Would never know them, and their babes would be 
As much alarmed as Hector's when he shrank 
Back from the hero's helm and nodding plumes, 
Into his nurse's arms. I 'm quite well versed 
In that most classic scene, which oft was wrought 
In bright embroidery, where I went to school. 
And I have seen it framed, and glazed, and hung 
On parlor walls, when I was fain to think, 
Asking the pardon of the fair who spent 



270 THE PRESENTATION. 

Eyesight and silks upon it, that its style 

Artistical, and anatomical, 

Was quite a libel on the Trojan chief, 

And likewise on his wife Andromache, 

And all their line. I worked a piece myself, 

Equally shocking, of an ark and child, 

And two strange-looking women, and a slice 

Of a cream-colored palace, trees arrayed 

In indigo, and umber, and gamboge, 

To show the fervor of Egyptian suns, 

As I suppose, — and this my teacher called 

The infant Moses in the bulrushes. 

I labored on it most industriously ; 

But since, when my own children have been scared, 

As waking suddenly from cradle-dreams, 

They fixed their eyes upon it, I 've eschewed 

The deed most heartily, and felt ashamed 

That sacred themes should be distorted so. 

And now I wonder what odd trains of thought 
Must needs bring back those hideous images, 
At such a time as this. 

Friends, have a care, 
And do not let the unaccustomed sword 
Embarrass your best bow, when the French court 
Shall give its welcome to you. Pray, make haste, — 
Our kind ambassador, with open doors 
Awaits our coming, and 't would be indeed 
But payment poor for all his courtesy, 
To plunge his carriage in the gathering throng 



THE PRESENTATION. 271 

And have it locked for hours. See, brilliant lights 

Stream from the Tuileries, and in full ranks 

Its officers and servitors are ranged, 

To do their nation's honors. From the walls 

Gleam forth, in pictured bravery and pride, 

The gallant chiefs of France. On those we gazed 

With critical remark, and on the groups 

That promenaded through the spacious halls, 

In costume rich, the elite of many lands. 

Ere long from lip to lip the murmur spread, 

" The king ! the king ! " and so the throng drew back, 

Each foreign region ranging 'neath the wing 

Of its own minister. Can that be he ? 

So fresh in feature and of step so firm, 

So little worn by time and adverse years, 

So little wearied with his toils to rule 

The champing war-horse of a changeful realm, 

Wild on the rein ? Courteous he passes down 

The extended line, with fitting phrase for all. 

Methought, with freer word and favoring glance, 

He scanned the natives of that western clime, 

W r here, in the exile of his clouded youth, 

He found a wanderer's home. 'T was sweet to hear, 

In the bright throne-room of the Tuileries, 

And from the lips of Europe's oldest king, 

The name of my own river, and the spot 

Where I was born, coupled with kindly words, 

As one tenacious of their scenery, 

Through many a lustrum. 



272 THE PRESENTATION. 

Then the graceful queen, 
With gentleness and dignity combined, 
Came in his steps. On her pale brow she bore 
An impress of that goodness, which hath made 
Her, as a wife and mother, still the praise 
And pattern of her kingdom. 

Then passed on 
At intervals, each with their separate suite, 
Princes and princess, and the beauteous bride 
Of him of Orleans, in an English tongue 
Giving fair greetings. So the pageant closed, 
And home we drove, well pleased at what we saw, 
Nor with ourselves dissatisfied. We found 
More of simplicity than we had deemed 
Abode in courts ; and this to us, who love 
Our plain republic, was a circumstance 
Not to be overlooked. With earnest warmth 
Of the chief lady of the realm we spake, 
And of her matron virtues, and that charm 
Of manner which approves those virtues well 
To every eye. 

And I was pleased to see 
She had the queenly grace of prudence too, 
In lesser things ; and on this wintry night 
Drew downward to the wrist the lengthened sleeve, 
And bade her satin robe protect the chest, 
Deeming most justly that vitality 
And health outweighed the tinsel modes of dress 
Coined by the milliner. And I have heard 
From good authority, and am right glad 



LOUIS Philippe's recollections. 273 

» 

To tell it here, that many a leading belle 
Of fashion and nobility in France 
Abjure the corset, and maintain a form 
Erect and graceful, without busk or cord, 
Ambitious to bequeathe a name, unstained 
By suicide. Would that my friends at home, 
Those sweet young blossoms on my country's stem, 
Might credit the report, and give their lungs 
And heart fair play, and earn a hope to reach 
The dignity of threescore years and ten, 
Free from the taint of self-derived disease. 



Louis Philippe's recollections of his travels in the 
United States, of their geographical peculiarities, and 
even the names of individuals whom he there met, are 
remarkably vivid. He is thought to have a fine tact in 
addressing appropriate remarks to those with whom he 
converses. When it came my turn to be spoken to, — 
having been told, at introduction, that I was a native 
of New England, — he inquired in which of the States 
I resided, and at the answer, " Connecticut," quickly 
responded, 

" Ah ! I have been there. It has a fine river, of 
the same name. I have been at Norwich and New 
London, at New Haven and Hartford. They are all 
pleasant places." 

In observing the florid complexion and animated 
manner of the king, it is difficult to realize that he has 
numbered almost threescore years and ten. He is 
18 



274 THE ROYAL FAMILY. 

undoubtedly, at present, the most remarkable sover- 
eign in Europe, if we take into view his native endow- 
ments, the early and long adversity which ripened 
energy, and deepened endurance, and the firmness 
with which he surmounted the dangers that menaced 
his throne. 

The queen is truly polite, and graceful in manner 
and movement. Her virtues, and the sincerity of her 
piety, are admitted and appreciated by those who re- 
tain prejudices against the ruling dynasty. 

Madame Adelaide, the sister of Louis Philippe, has 
a countenance beaming with good feelings ; and her 
fond affection for her royal brother forms a distinguish- 
ing trait in her character. The Duke of Orleans has 
exceedingly fine manners, and is a favorite with the 
nation. Little did we imagine, while admiring his 
noble countenance, and graceful form, that death was 
so soon and so mournfully to remove, in the prime 
of his days, this idol of his family and of the French 
people. 

The princess Clementine and the younger brothers 
make their passing compliments to strangers in an 
agreeable way. In this they are assisted by a perfect 
knowledge of the English language, which appertains 
to the whole family. Their domestic education has 
been conducted judiciously, under the careful supervis- 
ion of both parents, and has produced happy results. 
Louise, the queen of the Belgians, is exceedingly re- 
spected, and the late Princess Marie, who married 
Alexander, Duke of Wirtemburg, was eminent for 



GENERAL CASS. 275 

native talent and taste in the fine arts, especially for 
her spirited performances in sculpture, and died deeply 
lamented. 

The beauty of the young bride of the Duke de 
Nemours, Victoria of Saxe Coburg, who made her 
first appearance at the French court the present win- 
ter, is acknowledged by all. The royal family of 
France give an amiable example of those domestic 
attachments, and that true home-happiness, which ex- 
ercise so decided an influence on the character in the 
period of its formation, as well as throughout the whole 
of life. Such virtues have not always been indigenous 
in the soil of courts, and it is therefore the more de- 
lightful to see them here, with a vigorous root and 
healthful bloom. 

Our ambassador, General Cass, is quite a favorite 
at the French court, and ever since he has represented 
his country there, has been unwearied in his attentions 
to American travellers. Without regard to political 
creed, or other adventitious circumstances, he extends 
to them both official aid, and a liberal and elegant hos- 
pitality. To him, and to his excellent lady and family, 
as well as to his son-in-law, Hon. Henry Ledyard, our 
Charge des Affaires, and to his mother, then tempora- 
rily residing in Paris, we were much indebted for 
deeds of kindness, invaluable to those who, in foreign 
climes, bear the strangers' heart. 

Our party had been agreeably enlarged by the ac- 
cession of the Rev. Dr. Woods, President of Bowdoin 
College ; and likewise of the Hon. Mr. Dixon, and his 



276 THE TUILERIES. 

lady, from my own city, whose bridal tour was a voy- 
age to Europe. Their kind, considerate attentions, if 
either indisposition or home-sickness threw transient 
shadow over my path, partook so much of the sym- 
pathetic, filial character, as to implant enduring grat- 
itude. 

The Americans in France, at this period, were nu- 
merous, and disposed to social intercourse. Conspicu- 
ous among them, though always averse to display, was 
the Hon. Martin Brimmer, of Boston, one of the 
most perfect gentlemen and consistent Christians that 
any nation could boast, and who, not long after re- 
turning to his native land, was summoned to a " better 
country, that is, an heavenly." Having been for some 
time, with his young son, a resident in Paris, we prof- 
ited much by his excellent judgment, in the selec- 
tion of objects best worthy of a traveller's time and 
regard. 

In traversing the splendid apartments of the Tuil- 
eries, now the favorite residence of a peaceful dynasty, 
the mind involuntarily turns to those vestiges of the 
past, which have given it prominence in history. 
Among the structures of the capital of France, it early 
attracts the notice of the traveller. Stretching along 
the banks of the Seine, it is connected with the Louvre 
by a gallery commenced during the reign of Henry 
the Fourth, and finished under the auspices , of Louis 
the Fourteenth. Three sides of an immense parallel- 
ogram are thus formed, and it was the intention of 
Bonaparte to have added the fourth, and completed 



EVENTS AT THE TUTLERIES. 277 

the most magnificent edifice of the kind, that modern 
Europe can boast. 

As the eye fixes involuntarily upon the central pa- 
vilion, past scenes and events of other days sweep by, 
like living pictures. Francis the First, seems to pass 
proudly in his royal robes, bearing upon his arm his 
intriguing mother, Louise of Savoy, for whom he pur- 
chased the hotel which originally occupied the site 
of this palace, somewhat more than three centuries 
since. 

Ninety years after, we see Henry the Third hurry- 
ing from its walls to escape a tumult of the people. 
Assisted by his groom, he hastily mounts his horse, his 
dress disarranged, and the spurs but half fastened to 
his boots. Forty arquebusiers take aim at him as he 
passes out by the Pont Neuf ; and when he finds him- 
self free from the perilous neighborhood of the city, he 
indulges in wrathful gestures and imprecations of ven- 
geance ; like the vindictive Marmion, who, on quitting 
the castle of the haughty Douglas, 

" Turned and raised his clenched hand, 
And shout of loud defiance pours, 
And shook his gauntlet at the towers." 

We shrink, as we imagine gliding among these scenes, 
the form of the ambitious Catharine de Medicis, who 
built for her son's residence this very central pavilion, 
with its wings. There, there is the window from 
whence the infamous Charles the Ninth, whom his 
mother " Jezebel stirred up," fired upon his own peo- 



278 EVENTS AT THE TUILERIES. 

pie, on the terrible August 24th, 1572 ; and while the 
groans of the Protestants resounded in his ears, con- 
tinued to excite his ruffian soldiers, with the hoarse and 
horrible cry of " Kill ! kill ! " 

At the summer solstice, two hundred and twenty 
years after this massacre of St. Bartholomew, the Tui- 
leries again reechoed with the howling of an infuriated 
mob, and the shrieks of the dying. Throngs of labor- 
ers, and the terrible women from the faubourg St. An- 
toine, with the brewer Santerre at their head, swelling, 
as they passed along, to twenty thousand, beat down 
the gates of the palace, hewed their way through the 
doors with hatchets, trampled through the royal apart- 
ments, brandishing their cutlasses, pikes, and knives, 
rifled the bureaus in the bed-chambers, and alarmed 
the unfortunate Marie Antoinette, with the most dis- 
gusting and brutal threats. The king, Louis the Six- 
teenth, adventured his person among the mob, and was 
miraculously preserved, after enduring great rudeness 
and indignity. 

On the 10th of August, of this same memorable 
1791, the dreadful immolation of the Swiss Guards 
deluged the grand staircase, the council-chamber, the 
chapel, and the throne-room, with blood. 

Emerging from these gates on the 19th of March, 
1815, Louis the Eighteenth appeared at midnight, at- 
tended by only a few persons, and moving feebly, with 
sadness depicted on his countenance, abdicated his 
palace, and the throne of his ancestors. Behind him 
was the sound of the banners of the Corsican, rush- 



RETURN FROM ELBA. 279 

ing from Elba, and the scarce suppressed hosannas of 
a fickle crowd. In a few hours Bonaparte entered the 
Tuileries in triumph, and seated himself on the throne 
of the Bourbons, losing the memory of his exile in the 
enthusiastic acclamations of " Vive l'Empereur," and 
the reign of the hundred days. 



ADIEU TO FRANCE. 



Adieu to sunny France ! I call it so, 
Because my betters have. Yet for my part 

I have been all but perished in her clime, 
Frost-stricken to the bone, and to the heart ; 

The Seine in one night turned to ice ! I own 

I M not expected this, short of the Arctic zone. 

Wood by the pound ! 'T was an astonishment, 
Next to the shock of water sold by measure, 

Each tiny stem and stalk so strictly weighed, 
Each little grape-vine faggot such a treasure ! 

Oh ! for the coal of England, glowing bright, 

Or even my slighted friend, the homelier anthracite. 

I came in Autumn, when the vines had shrunk 
From prop and trellis ; yet the verdant trees 

Danced to the gale that swept the Elysian fields, 
And rose and pansy dared the chilling breeze ; 

I leave in Winter, and so cannot say, 

How her beau del may smile 'neath happier sea- 
sons' sway. 



ADIEU TO FRANCE. 281 

Yet is her courtesy forever bright, 

For still to princely halls and paintings gay 

She, with glad heart and liberal hand, doth lead 
The stranger in, and cast his dole away, 

Bidding him share, unvexed by venal guide, 

Whate'er she counts most rare, of elegance or 
pride. 

Hence have I roamed at will her haunts of taste, 
Within her glorious Louvre sate me down, 

Day after day, — or when the spirit moved, 

Lingered mid lettered tomes, nor feared a frown, 

Or sought the palace domes, which crown so high 

The city of her boast, the apple of her eye. 

Here too, I found, where fashion holds her court, 
With wealth and grace and intellect combin'd, 

A form of beauty thrilled by impulse high, 
To warm and sleepless energy of mind, 

A friend to cheer me on my stranger-way, 

Whom grateful Memory loves, but never can re- 
pay. 

Farewell, enchanting city, which doth hold 
Both eye and heart in strong Circean sway, 

Bidding the buoyant spirit ne'er grow old, 

Though wintry years may turn the temples gray, 

But seek for pleasure, till the funeral bell 

Doth summon it to take of time a long farewell. 



282 ADIEU TO FRANCE. 

Fair France, adieu ! 't will not be mine again, 
Amid the allurements of thy realm to tread, 

Yet with me still, across the Atlantic main, 

Kind thoughts of thee shall wend, by kindness 
bred, 

And at my fireside 't will be sweet to say, 

That I have seen thy face and listened to thy lay. 

For many a charm thou hast, the heart to win, 
Blest filial love luxuriates in thy clime, 

Nor doth the parent by such solace cheered, 
Tire of the feast of life before his time, 

Nor even the grandsire on its gladness frown, 

And to the gulf of years unlovingly go down. 

Thou hast not blotted out the love of song 
For love of money, nor enthusiasm damped 

"With the chill dogma, that a hoard of wealth 

Is man's chief end on earth ; for thou art stamped 

And marked with chivalry of antique mould, 

And still dost genius prize, apart from gain of gold. 

I do remember me, that thou didst lend 
Thy hand to help my country in her need, 

And Lafayette in youthful fervor send 
With us to struggle and for us to bleed ; 

And still doth glow amid our annal bright 

Thy friendship for our sires, who battled for the 
right. 



ADIEU TO FRANCE. 283 

Thou hast a, longing for the things that tend 
Unto thy hurt, and lovest all too well 

The war-shout, and the long embattled line, 

And pomp and fame, that martial triumphs swell, 

Although thy life-blood cast its crimson stain, 

Profuse o'er Russia's snows, and Egypt's desert plain. 

Would it were better with thee ! It would cheer 
Me in my home, amid my household care, 

To think that all was prosperous in thy clime, 
All sound at heart, that to the eye is fair ; 

But now the fresh breeze curls the ocean blue, 

And rocks the waiting boat. Delightful France, 
adieu ! 



To the kind attentions of the present Marchioness La 
Vallette, a native of New England, whose house was 
my home during a great part of my stay in Paris, and 
whose only motive for such hospitality must have been 
the generous one of imparting happiness to a stranger, 
I am indebted for some of my most agreeable impres- 
sions of that city, and of its inhabitants. Courtesy 
and deference to the feelings of others, throw a charm 
over the higher grades of society, and in some measure 
modify every class ; and if fine manners do not exactly 
belong to the family of the virtues, they surely help to 
beautify them. Among the ancient noblesse was one, 
the Count Roy, whose expressive countenance and 
unalloyed delight in social intercourse, made it dim- 



284 LAFAYETTE. 

cult to believe, that more than fourscore years had 
passed over him. His details of the revolution of 
1790, of the secret springs that produced it, and of 
some terrific scenes which he personally witnessed, and 
which, by a deliberate utterance, he politely accommo- 
dated to a foreign ear, were to me more graphic than 
the pages of any historian. The grace with which 
age adapts itself to a new generation, and the affec- 
tionate manner in which it is welcomed among them, 
are delightful traits in the character of the French 
people. 

Monsieur George Washington Lafayette, and Ma- 
dame Laysterie, the surviving children of the Mar- 
quis Lafayette, with their families and his other 
descendants, are sought with interest by Americans, 
and reciprocate every expression of such regard to 
their illustrious ancestor. La Grange is consecrated 
ground to those, who, in the words of one of our most 
elegant writers, the lamented author of Hadad, remem- 
ber the deeds of the chieftain, who " came to us during 
our life-struggle in his own ship, freighted with muni- 
tions of war, which he gratuitously distributed to our 
army ; clothed and put shoes on the feet of the naked, 
suffering soldiers ; equipped and armed a regiment at 
his own expense ; received no pay, but expended in 
our service, from 1777 to 1783, the sum of 700,000 
francs ; and whose name, wherever the pulse of free- 
dom beats, should be pronounced with benedictions." 

Literary reputation, as well as scientific attainment, 
are highly appreciated in Paris. Intellect, and the 



LITERATURE AND THE FINE ARTS. 285 

labors of intellect, are here passports to that temple of 
honor, which in most other countries must be entered 
with a key of gold. It is pleasing to see with what 
enthusiasm Lamartine and Arago are pointed out in 
their seats, amid the five hundred members of the 
Chamber of Deputies. The poet De la Vigne, not- 
withstanding his retiring modesty, is shown exultingly 
to strangers, and the pen of Guizot has won him more 
admirers than his political fame. It was gratifying to 
perceive that our talented countryman, Robert Walsh, 
Esq., was as highly and truly respected in the capital 
of France, as in the land of his birth. 

One of the most imposing audiences that I remem- 
ber to have seen while there, was convened in the pal- 
ace of the Institute, formerly the Mazarine College, to 
witness the admission of a new member, the Count 
Mole, into the Institute of France. The assembled 
academicians, in their becoming uniform, listened in- 
tently to his animated inaugural oration, and to the 
reply of the President Dupin, while, from their niches 
in the spacious hall, the marble brows of Massillon, 
Fenelon, and Bossuet, Sully, Descartes, and others, 
looked down with imperturbable dignity. 

Taste for the fine arts forms an integral part of the 
character of the French. From the saloon of the noble 
to the shop of the petty marchand des modes, it is 
seen in every variety of adornment, from the costly 
painting or chiselled group of the ancient master, to the 
simple vase of artificial flowers under its glass shade, 
or the little fancy-clock, that hastens the movements 



286 LOUVRE. BIBLIOTHEQUE DU KOI. 

of the needle. The very street-beggar feels a prop- 
erty and a pride in the decorations of la belle Paris. 
To rifle a plant, or wound a tree, or deface a statue 
in the public squares or gardens, is held by the rudest 
boy an indelible disgrace. Would that it were so 
everywhere ! 

In the Louvre, amid that astonishing collection of 
fifteen hundred arranged pictures, and probably as 
many more, for which the walls of its sumptuous gal- 
lery have no space, were groups of artists, of both 
sexes, diligently employed in copying ad libitum. The 
department of statuary, notwithstanding the spoils of 
Italy have been abstracted and restored, is still very 
extensive. Our party often found themselves attracted 
towards a lovely, pensive Polhyminia, and a fine infant 
Mercury, and imagined among the effigies of the Em- 
perors of Rome some resemblance to their real char- 
acter ; especially in the philosophic features of Marcus 
Aurelius, the thoughtful brow of Antoninus Pius, and 
the varied lineaments of Trajan, Severus, and Nerva, 
Domitian, Nero, and Caracalla ; though a youthful 
Commodus in his gentleness and grace displayed none 
of those latent evils which gave the sharpest pang to 
the deathbed of his father. 

Like the Louvre, the Bibliotheque du Eoi, is fitted 
up with every accommodation of light, warmth, and 
silent recess, for those who are desirous of profiting 
by its immense accumulation of nine hundred thousand 
volumes, and eighty thousand manuscripts. The 
books are in cases, protected by wire grating, and 



CHURCHES. PANTHEON. 287 

librarians are always in attendance, to reach such as 
are desired. Tables, with inkstands, are in readiness 
for those who desire to make extracts, and no conver- 
sation is allowed to disturb such as may be engaged in 
profound researches. It was pleasant to see so many 
of my own sex seated silently at these tables, and ab- 
sorbed in the pursuit of knowledge. 

The magnificence of the churches in Paris, and 
the multitude of their paintings, statues, and bas- 
relievos, are noticed by all. At Notre Dame and 
St. Roch, we saw the pompous service of the Ro- 
mish ritual, and the appearance of deep devotion 
among the worshippers, especially those whose garb 
announced great poverty. But without the doors, 
and in all the streets, went on the accustomed move- 
ments of toil and of pleasure, — building houses, dig- 
ging trenches, traffic of market-people and trades- 
men, review of troops, rush of throngs intent on 
amusement, as if the Almighty had not from the begin- 
ning, set apart for himself a day of sacred rest. To 
one inured to the quietness and hallowed observance of 
a New England Sabbath, this desecration is peculiarly 
painful. 

The pulpit eloquence of France is with much more 
gesticulation than in England, or our own country. 
Indeed, the vehement style marks most of the public 
speaking that we heard there ; at the Bourse, where 
the merchants negotiate sales of stock, and transact 
other business at the very top of their voices ; in the 



288 ST. DENIS. 

tribunals, where the advocates plead with their whole 
bodily force ; and in the Chamber of Deputies, where 
the exciting question of war with England was one 
morning discussed with such violence, as to excite my 
apprehensions that it might end in actual combat. 

The Pantheon, formerly the Church of St. Genevieve, 
is a splendid structure, and its dome, being the most 
elevated one in Paris, affords an extensive prospect. 
Here are the bones of Voltaire and Rousseau ; here, 
also, Mirabeau was laid with great pomp, in the spring 
of 1791, while the horrors of that revolution were 
deepening, which he had done so much to precipitate. 
Beneath its pavement is a vast series of vaults, with 
roofs supported by Tuscan columns, and containing 
funeral urns, after the fashion of the Roman tombs at 
Pompeii. While following the dim lamp of our guide, 
we traversed this subterranean city of the dead, we 
were startled at a loud echo, which by the construc- 
tion of two circular passages in the centre of the 
vaulted area, gives singular force and perpetuity to the 
slightest sound. 

The exterior of the Church of St. Denis, though 
less elaborate than many others, is striking and suffi- 
ciently ornate. The inhumed ashes of the monarchs 
of France, from Clovis to Louis the Eighteenth, give 
interest to the spot, and a lesson to human pride. 
During the madness of the revolution, their repo&e 
was violated, but the broken sepulchres and scattered 
relics were again gathered and reunited. • Many of the 



VERSAILLES. 289 

monuments are exceedingly costly, and some of their 
recumbent statues, by a strange perversion of taste, 
depict the distortions and agonies of death with fearful 
accuracy. 

At the Porte St. Denis, is the celebrated triumphal 
arch, erected to commemorate the victories of Louis 
the Fourteenth. Its proportions and sculpture are 
much admired, and surmounting the arch in bas 
relief, is the king on horseback, represented as cross- 
ing the Rhine, with only the inscription, " Ludovico 
Magno" But in no spot are his ambition and lavish 
expenditure so conspicuous as in the palace of Ver- 
sailles, which cannot be explored without remember- 
ing its mournful influence on the fates of France, at 
the birth of the Revolution. A double line of colossal 
statues of the great of other days, receive the visitant 
at the gates. The paintings, the tapestry, the statues, 
the fountains, it would require volumes to describe. 
Gallery after gallery astonishes the sight. Here Ludo- 
vico Magno, as he was fond of being styled, is multi- 
plied by the pencil in the most imposing forms of 
martial and regal state. The departments allotted to 
Napoleon are still blazing with the portraiture of his 
battles, and the trophies of his renown. Yet in such a 
place, even more, it would seem, than amid the tombs, 
the mind is led to reflect on the vanity of mortal glory. 
Descending a hundred marble steps, we visited the 
immense orangery, where, amid throngs of fine orange 
trees, we were shown one said to be three hundred and 
another four hundred years old, still vigorous and in 
19 



290 GRAND AND PETIT TRIANON. 

healthful bearing. At our departure, surfeited with 
splendor, from this great Babylon, created for the 
pride and praise of men who are now but dust, we were 
beset at the gates by the saddest and lowest forms of 
mendicity, who in piteous accents supplicated for a 
single sous. 

The two small palaces of Grand and Petit Trianon 
are within the gardens of Versailles. The first was 
erected by the Grand Monarque for Madame de Main- 
tenon, and we saw there the sedan-chair, rich with 
gilding and velvet, in which she used to be borne 
around the magnificent grounds. Among the pictures 
was one commemorating our national era of the " Sur- 
render at Yorktown," in which Washington, in an 
antiquated uniform, makes rather a quaint appearance. 
Every apartment in this beautiful palace, especially 
the working rooms of the present queen and the sister 
of Louis Philippe, display consummate taste in the 
arrangement and adaptation to each other of the hang- 
ings, sofas, chairs, mirrors, and different articles of 
furniture. 

Le Petit Trianon, was built by Louis the Fifteenth 
for Madame Dubarri, and here he was smitten with 
his fatal sickness. Afterwards it was given by 
Louis the Sixteenth to Marie Antoinette, who beauti- 
fied its grounds by her taste, and erected among them 
the imitation of a little Swiss village. It is surrounded 
by many fine trees, of which some are American. 
Here Louis the Fifteenth was called to render up his 
breath, and here the son of Napoleon was born. 



SEVERITY OF WINTER. 291 

Among the tasteful articles exhibited, is a bed draped 
with muslin, embroidered in gold, which formerly be- 
longed to Maria Louisa. Both these fine structures 
have some exquisite pictures. 

We were persevering in visiting the palaces of Paris 
and its environs, with other objects and institutions of 
interest, notwithstanding the severity of the winter. 
Having heard so much of the fine climate of France, 
we were surprised at being sometimes enveloped in 
those dense, yellow fogs, which we flattered ourselves 
had been left behind in London. Snow frequently 
descended, and lay thickly upon the roofs for several 
weeks, the horses, not properly shod, fell upon the 
slippery pavements, and received no mercy from their 
drivers ; and the sufferings of the improvident poor 
were terrible. The inhabitants asserted that a season 
of such intense and protracted cold had not been expe- 
rienced for many years. The Seine froze quite over 
in December, on the night after the ceremony of the 
reception of Bonaparte's remains. It was feared that 
the period of that grand pageant might be chosen for 
some popular tumult; as symptoms of disaffection 
towards the government, especially of exasperation 
against the English, had for some time been revealing 
themselves. During the day the Marsellois Hymn, the 
ancient signal of outbreak, had been heard hoarsely 
uplifted, with here and there cries, among the crowd, 
of " a has les traitres." Some of us, nurtured in a 
peaceful land, were considerably alarmed, not so much 



292 LAUDABLE ECONOMY. 

for our own personal safety, as lest our eyes should 
be shocked by sights of conflict and bloodshed. But 
the extreme cold, benumbing nerve and muscle, and 
checking all effervescence of animal spirits, probably 
operated as a protection to the peace of the city ; 
on the same principle that Marshal Soult once quelled 
the beginning of a formidable insurrection by caus- 
ing the engines to play plentifully upon the mal- 
contents. Would that all distinguished commanders 
were equally ingenious and merciful in substituting 
water for blood. 

Among the slighter traits of French character, we 
could not but notice that variety and fruitfulness of 
resource, by which a little was made sufficient for the 
necessities of life ; and the respect which was shown to 
a just economy. No false shame was evinced at the 
confession, " I should like . such a thing, but cannot 
afford it ; " and a moderate expenditure seemed not 
only consistent with entire contentment, but was count- 
ed more reputable than the appearance of wealth with- 
out its reality. 

Another still more delightful trait is the sweet and 
affectionate deportment of children to their parents. 
This is discoverable among all ranks. It reveals itself 
in the zealous attentions and offices which a younger 
hand can so gracefully extend to those who are wearied 
with the cares of life, as well as in the marked and ten- 
tier attentions, too often omitted by those whose filial 
virtues would be called into vigorous action by any 



FILIAL AFFECTION. 293 

emergency. Surely this is an affection which should 
beautify the intercourse of every day, yet continually 
humble itself for its inadequacy to repay the vast 
debt to parental love, that best earthly symbol of the 
Love Divine, in which we " live, and move, and have 
our being." 



OPENING OF PARLIAMENT BY VICTORIA. 



It was on the morning of January 25th, 1841, that 
we went forth to witness the ceremony of convoking 
the Parliament of England. Through the influence of 
friends, I was favored with a seat in the House of 
Lords, where the interval of waiting could be employed 
in observing the peers and peeresses, and the foreign 
ambassadors, in their varied costumes. Conspicuous, 
by his lofty form and dignified bearing, was the old 
Duke of Cambridge, who exhibits a striking resem- 
blance to his father, George the Third. 

At ten minutes past two, the thunder of cannon, the 
flourish of trumpets, and shouts of the people, an- 
nounced the approach of the processioi). Eight noble 
cream-colored horses, who never appear but on the 
greatest occasions, drew the massy state coach, so cov- 
ered with colossal, emblematic figures, that it is said to 
weigh four tons. It was a moment of enthusiasm when 
the young queen entered. She wore a dress of white 
satin and lace, superbly decorated with diamonds ; 
a robe, or mantle of crimson velvet, with a train ; and 
on her head glittered the crown of the kingdom. She 



ACCOMPLISHMENT OF READING. 295 

took her place on the throne, Prince Albert at her 
left hand, on a lower seat, as the etiquette of the realm 
requires ; the Lord Chancellor standing near, and Lord 
Melbourne bearing before her the sword of state. 

The complexion of Victoria is exceedingly fair, but 
her countenance has no decided intellectual expression. 
It seemed remarkable that so. young a creature should 
evince such entire ease and self-possession, nor even 
betray the slightest consiousness that every eye in that 1 
vast assembly was fixed solely on her. This, however, 
is a part of the queenly training, in which she has be- 
come perfect. 

After a brief pause, a tone, combining sweetness 
with command, escaped those ruby lips. The gentle- 
man of the Black Rod, was commissioned to " summon 
my House of Commons." That whole body, led by 
their Speaker, with a lion-like air, presented them- 
selves at the door or bar, their accustomed limit, to 
hear the speech of her Majesty. This she pronounced 
in a voice of such clearness and melody, and with so 
correct an enunciation, that every word of her speech 
was distinctly audible to the farthest extremity of the 
House of Lords. She possesses in an eminent degree 
the accomplishment of fine reading. I could not help 
wishing that the fair daughters of my own land, who 
wear no crown save that of loveliness and virtue, 
would more fully estimate the worth of this accom- 'i 
plishment, and more faithfully endeavor to acquire it. 
For I remembered how often, in our seminaries of edu- 
cation, I had listened almost breathlessly to sentiments, 



296 TEARS AT BECOMING A QUEEN. 

which I knew, from the lips that uttered them, must 
be true and beautiful ; but only stifled sounds, or a few 
uncertain murmurings repaid the toil. And I wish all 
who conduct the education of young ladies would insist 
on at least an audible utterance, and not consider their 
own office to be faithfully filled, unless a correct and 
graceful elocution is attained. 

When Victoria had finished her speech, she reached 
the manuscript to the Lord Chancellor, and that grave 
dignitary reverently knelt to take it from her hand. 
Then she passed out, as she entered, with the same 
demonstrations of affection from her people. It was a 
thought both touching and elevating, that amid the 
change and revolution which have overturned many 
thrones, one should for hundreds of years have re- 
mained in stability, and a delicate woman be so guard- 
ed by the chivalry of a once rude nation, as to bear its 
sceptre safely and peacefully. 

In looking upon her to whom such power is de- 
puted, and hoping that she might be enabled to execute 
the sacred and fearful trust, for the good of the mil- 
lions who own her sway, and for her own soul's salva- 
tion, I was reminded of the circumstance of her weep- 
ing when told she was to become a queen, and of the 
sweet poem of Miss Barret, now Mrs. Browning, which 
commemorates that circumstance. 

It was a scene of pomp. 

The ancient hall 
Where Britain's highest in their wisdom meet, 



VICTORIA. 297 

Showed proud array of noble and of peer, 

Prelate and judge, each in his fitting robes 

Of rank and power. And beauty lent its charms ; 

For with plumed brows, the island peeresses 

Bore themselves nobly. Distant realms wei^e there 

In embassy, from the far jewelled East, 

To that which stretcheth toward the setting sun, — 

My own young native land. 

Long was the pause 
Of expectation. Then the cannon spake, 
The trumpets flourished bravely, and the throne 
Of old Plantagenet, that stood so firm, 
While years and blasts and earthquake-shocks dis- 
solved 
The linked dynasty of many climes, 
Took in its golden arms a fair young form, — 
The Lady of the kingdoms. With clear eye 
And queenly grace, gentle and self-possessed, 
She met the fixed gaze of the earnest throng, 
Scanning her close. And I remembered well 
How it was said that tears o'erflowed her cheek, 
When summoned first for cares of state to yield 
Her girlhood's joys. 

In her fair hand she held 
A scroll, and with a clear and silver tone 
Wondrous in melody, descanted free 
Of foreign climes, where Albion's ships had borne 
Their thunders, and of those who dwelt at peace 
In prosperous commerce, and of some who frowned 
In latent amrer, murmuring notes of war, 



298 VICTORIA. 

Until the British Lion cleared his brow 
To mediate between them, with a branch 
Of olive in his paw. 

'T was strange to me 
To hear so young a creature speak so well 
And eloquent, of nations and their rights, 
Their equal balance and their policies, 
Which we, in our republic, think that none 
Can comprehend but grave and bearded men. 
Her words went wandering wide o'er all the earth. 
For so her sphere required. But there was still 
Something she said not, though the closest twined 
With her heart's inmost core. Yes, there was one, 
One little word imbedded in her soul, 
Which yet she uttered not. Fruitful in change, 
Had been the fleeting year. When last she stood 
In this august assembly to convoke 
The power of parliament, the crown adorned 
A maiden brow ; but now that vow had passed, 
Which Death alone can break, and a new soul 
Come forth to witness it. And by the seed 
Of those most strong affections, dropped by Heaven 
In a rich soil, I knew there was a germ 
That fain would have disclosed itself in sound 
If unsupprest. Through her transparent brow 
I could discern that word close wrapped in love, 
And dearer than all earthly pageantry. 
Thy babe, young Mother ! thy fair first-born babe ! 
That was the word ! 



VICTORIA. 299 

And yet she spoke it not ; 
But rose, and, leaning on her consort's arm, 
Passed forth. And as the gorgeous car of state, 
By noble coursers borne exultingly, 
Drew near, the people's acclamations rose 
Loud, and reechoed widely to the' sky. 
Long may their loyalty and love be thine, 
Daughter of many kings, and thou the rights 
Of peasant as of prince maintain, and heed 
The cry of lowly poverty, as one 
Who must account to God. 

So unto Him, 
From many a quiet fireside of thy realm 
At the still hour of prayer, thy name shall rise, 
Blent with that name which thou didst leave unsaid ; 
And blessings, which shall last, when sceptres fall, 
And crowns are dust, be tenderly invoked 
On the young sovereign and her cradled child. 



MRS. FRY AT NEWGATE PRISON. 



Bolts and bars, and the creaking of sullen hinges, 
and the clang of massy doors, and the meagre aspect 
of narrow, grated windows, how repulsive ! how the 
veins chill at passing these dreary thresholds ! — and 
yet what mighty pains have we taken to arrive at this 
prison-house, and to gain admittance to its precincts. 
Riding through one of the most terribly dense London 
fogs, swallowing its mephitic atmosphere, saturated with 
coal in sickening mouthfuls, to our present annoyance 
as well as future peril plunging into black, glutinous 
mire, and all for what ? To be let in where multitudes 
are longing to be let out, — where, for so many years 
such masses of human crime and misery have tossed, 
and fermented, and been cast forth to banishment and 
to death. 

Well, here we are, indeed, at Newgate, seated in the 
midst of a throng of female convicts. How rude and 
hardened is the aspect of many of them, — what savage 
and hateful glances do they bend on the unfallen. 
Here, too, are young faces, with curious, searching 
eyes, taking note of every ornament of dress, others 



PERSONAL APPEARANCE OF MRS. FRY. 301 

turned away with a mixture of shame, others express- 
ing only stupid indifference. Oh, children ! had ye no 
mothers to warn you of this ? 

I am told that, in some cases, their mistresses, for 
the theft of a slight article of dress, have given them 
up to such ignominy. It was painful to look upon the 
sin and sorrow thus exhibited by my own sex. " Who 
maketh thee to differ ? " was never before so forcibly 
impressed, or with such a humbling consciousness of 
innate infirmity. 

The brief pause was broken by the entrance of a 
lady of commanding height, and of plain garb and 
countenance. Every eye was fixed on her, and the 
dignity of her calm benevolence seemed to be felt by 
all. There was about her the quietude of a soul con- 
versant with high duties, and not to be satisfied with 
so poor an aliment as the applause of man. 

This was Mrs. Fry. With a peculiar melody of 
voice, and that slow intonation which usually distin- 
guishes the sect to which she belongs, she read from 
the Bible, and after a few simple remarks and touching 
admonitions, knelt in prayer. But neither in her com- 
ments, nor in the solemn exercise of devotion was there 
a single allusion which could harrow up the feelings 
of the unfortunate beings who surrounded her. Over 
the past a veil was drawn. It was to the future that 
she urged them to look, with " newness of life." She 
came with all gentleness of speech, as to the " lost 
sheep of the house of Israel." She spoke of the infinite 
compassion of the Redeemer, — of the joy that there 



302 EFFECTS OF THE ADDRESS. 

was among angels, when one sinner repenteth ; till those 
who, despairing, had said, " no man careth for my 
soul," laid aside the defiance of guilt, and seeme.d ready 
to become as little children. 

More than usual feeling was pressed into this inter- 
view. It was a parting scene. The class of convicts, 
whom she now addressed, were the next week to be 
transported to Botany Bay. With increasing earnest- 
ness she recapitulated the instructions given during 
their previous intercourse, which must now never 
more be renewed. She exhorted them to an exem- 
plary deportment during the long voyage that was 
before them ; to convince all with whom they should 
in future associate, that their teaching had not been in 
vain ; to bear with patience the evils, and discharge 
with fidelity their duties, in a foreign land ; fortify- 
ing their good resolutions by every hope drawn from 
this life and the next. Surely the spirit of that 
Master was with her, who wrote with his finger upon 
the ground, effacing the accuser's threat, and sparing 
to condemn the sinful soul, abashed at its own guilt. 
Nor were her appeals in vain. Sobs and moans, on 
every side, attested that hardened natures were becom- 
ing as wax before the flame. The stony-hearted and 
the fiery-eyed, seemed ready to change, like Niobe, 
into a fountain of tears. A stronger contrast could 
scarcely be imagined, than the appearance of the audi- 
ence at her entrance and her departure. May the 
hallowed counsels of their benefactress go with them 
over the far waters, and be to them, in the land of 



MRS. fry's FIRST VISIT. 303 

their banishment, as a voice turning many to right- 
eousness. 

After our departure from this scene, and during a 
drive in her own carriage, Mrs. Fry inquired of me 
much respecting American prisons, and expressed 
great interest in the results of those systems of disci- 
pline among us, which have in view the reformation of 
the offender. A young lady, who seemed to be an 
active assistant in her plan of benevolence, presented 
me, at Newgate, with a book detailing the progress 
of these efforts in behalf of female prisoners. It 
seems that the first visit of Mrs. Fry to Newgate was 
in 1813, and that she then found, in an area of less than 
two hundred square yards, three hundred incarcerated 
females. Such were their ferocious manners and aban- 
doned conduct, that it was not thought safe to go in 
among them. The governor, perceiving that she had 
determined to venture, deemed it expedient to request 
that she would leave her watch behind her, acknowl- 
edging that even his presence might be insufficient # to 
prevent its being violently torn from her. Almost 
every discouragement seemed to oppose the outset of 
the benevolent effort of Mrs. Fry. It was felt neces- 
sary to have a guard of soldiers in the prison to prevent 
outrage ; order and discipline were utterly set at defi- 
ance. But her presence, and the kind interest she 
manifested in them, made a great impression. At her 
second visit, she was, by her own desire, admitted into 
the wards, unaccompanied by any turnkey. She then 
proposed to them a school for the children and younger 



304 SCHOOL AMONG THE CONVICTS. 

prisoners. This was accepted, even by the most hard- 
ened, with gratitude and tears of joy. A separate cell 
was procured, and the school prosperously established. 
Soon the older prisoners came with entreaties to be 
taught and employed. A matron was obtained to re- 
main day and night in the prison, and the ordinary, 
governor, and sheriffs, though they had no confidence 
in the success of the experiment, manifested every 
favorable disposition towards it, and lent it all the aid 
in their power. At the next meeting, the comforts to 
be derived from industry, and sobriety, were dwelt 
upon ; the pleasure and profit of doing right, and ob- 
taining knowledge ; and the happiness of a life devoted 
to virtue and piety. The prisoners were assured that 
no regulation would be established among them with- 
out their entire concurrence, and that neither Mrs. 
Fry, nor the ladies with whom she consulted, and who 
formed a committee, assumed any authority over them, 
except by their own consent. Some rules were then 
proposed, and it was gratifying to see every hand held 
up in unqualified approval. A chapter in the Bible was 
read to them, and after a period of silent meditation, 
the monitors, who had been appointed, withdrew with 
their respective classes to the cells, in the most orderly 
manner. 

The first steps toward taming the lion had suc- 
ceeded beyond all expectation. Guilt had listened, 
and admitted the superiority of virtue, and been ' con- 
vinced that it was itself an object neither of indiffer- 
ence nor of hatred. It had seen those, who were " rich 



IMPROVEMENT. 305 

and increased in goods/' condescending to " light a 
candle, and sweep the house, and seek diligently for 
the piece that was lost." It wondered, and was sub- 
dued. 

A great change in the habits of the prisoners was 
obvious to all who approached them. It had been the 
practice of those- who were sentenced to transporta- 
tion, on the night before their departure, to pull down 
and break every thing within their reach, — to destroy 
their seats and fireplaces, and go off shouting with the 
most shameless effrontery. Now, to the surprise of 
the oldest turnkeys, and other officers and inmates of 
the prison, no noise was heard, no injury done, not a 
window broken. The departing ones took an affection- 
ate leave of their companions, expressed gratitude to 
their benefactress and her coadjutors, and entered the 
conveyances that had been provided for them, in the 
most quiet and orderly manner. 

Mrs. Fry, and the benevolent ladies associated with 
her, visit the convict-ships while they remain in the 
river, and kindly present the inmates such articles as 
may conduce to their comfort ; giving to each one a bag 
for holding her clothes, another for her work, another 
containing a small supply of haberdashery, materials 
for knitting and for patchwork, combs, scissors, and 
thimbles, spectacles to such as need them, useful books, 
religious tracts, and a copy of the New Testament, 
with the Psalms appended. Eules for their observ- 
ance during the voyage are read to them, and while 
they are assembled to receive their gifts, kind words 
20 



306 CONDUCT AFTER TRANSPORTATION. 

of admonition are addressed to them, mingled with pas- 
sages from the Scriptures. Compressed in the narrow 
space which for four or five months is to be their home, 
and about to become exiles from their native land, 
they often pour forth the most fervent feelings to those 
who sought them out in their low estate, and followed 
them to the last moment with offices of mercy, in the 
name of a common Saviour. 

Most gratifying was it to the persevering originator 
of this effort, to find that its good results were not con- 
fined to the walls of the prison. Superintendents and 
physicians, on board the convict-ships, gave testimony 
to the marked improvement in the behavior of the wo- 
men from Newgate. On their arrival at the place of 
their destination, the lady of the governor, who had 
several of them in her family as servants, asserted that 
" their conduct was so uniformly correct as to merit 
her approbation ; a circumstance so uncommon that 
she felt it her duty to acquaint Mrs. Fry with the 
happy change." 

One, who had been four years in the penal colony at 
New South "Wales, writes, " It was inside of the walls 
of Newgate that the rays of divine truth shone into my 
dark mind, and may the Holy Spirit shine more and 
more into my understanding, that I may be enabled so 
to walk as one whose heart is set to seek a city whose 
builder and maker is God. I hope the world will see 
that your labor in Newgate has not been in vain in the 
Lord." 



INSTANCES OF PENITENCE. 307 

Another who had occasionally been employed as a 
teacher among her fellow-prisoners, writes to Mrs. Fry, 
" I sincerely wish to forsake evil and to do good. God 
is merciful to those who seek him by penitence and 
prayer. It is my determination, with his assistance, to 
begin a new life." Afterwards, in her last sickness, 
she said she was cheered by the " hope of living hap- 
pily in a better world," and that her sorrowful impris- 
onment had proved a real blessing. 

Another liberated prisoner encloses to Mrs. Fry two 
pounds, saved from her wages as a servant, which she 
begs her to accept, " and add to the subscription for 
defraying the expenses of her most benevolent exer- 
tions for the reform and instruction of those unhappy 
persons, confined within that dreary receptacle of woe, 
— the walls of Newgate." 

What was commenced so prosperously at Newgate, 
has been extended to other prisons in Great Britain, 
and with some degree of the same success. Many have 
been taught both to read and to work neatly, and thus, 
after their liberation, have found themselves better 
qualified to earn an honest livelihood. Some have 
been received as servants, and maintained an exem- 
plary conduct for years, and even remained with their 
employers as long as they lived. 

Of others it was said, that their dutiful and industri- 
ous course had been a comfort to parents and friends ; 
and others had died in the faith of the Gospel, giving 
God thanks for the instruction of those who had sought 
them out in their wretchedness, not being ashamed of 



308 EXTENSION OF PHILANTHROPIC EFFORT. 

their bonds. Some, of course, have exhibited no marks 
of repentance; but that any are reclaimed, calls for 
fervent gratitude. Not only in England, Scotland, and 
Ireland, but in different parts of the continent, especially 
in Russia, Prussia, and Switzerland, a spirit of inquiry 
and exertion has been aroused by the successful exper- 
iment at Newgate. 

This true philanthropist, in the spirit of her benevo- 
lence, has visited Paris, and been gratified to find many 
ladies there, disposed to adopt her views, and inquire 
into the condition of the prisoner. Though the pioneer 
in this enterprise of charity, she speaks of herself as 
only the organ of others, — the instrument of societies 
or committees ; being in reality a disciple of that dis- 
claiming humility, which, when there is good to be 
done, worketh mightily, but when praise is awarded, 
hideth itself. 



The harsh key grated in its ward, 

The massy bolts undrew, 
And watchful men, of aspect stern, 

Gave us admittance through, — 
Admittance where so many pine 

A blest release to gain, 
And desperate hands have madly striven 

To wrest the bars in vain. 

What untold depths of human woe 
Have rolled their floods along, 



MRS. FRY AT NEWGATE PRISON. 309 

Since first these rugged walls were heaved 

From their foundations strong ; 
Guilt, with its seared and blackened breast, 

Fierce Hate, with sullen glare, 
And Justice, smiting unto death, 

And desolate Despair. 

Here, Crime hath spread a loathsome snare 

For souls of lighter stain. 
And Shame hath cowered, and Anguish drained 

The darkest dregs of pain, 
And Punishment its doom hath dealt, 

Relentless as the grave, 
And spurned the sinful fellow-worm, 

Whom Jesus died to save. 

Ah ! there they are, the fallen so low, 
Who bear our weaker form, 

Whose rude and haggard features tell 
Of passion's wrecking storm ; 

See, how on ring or trinket gay- 
Are bent their eager eyes, 

As though by habitude constrained 
To seize the unlawful prize. 

Yet be not strict their faults to mark, 

Nor hasty to condemn, 
Oh thou, whose erring human heart 

May not have swerved like them ; 
But with the tear-drop on thy cheek 

Adore that guardian Power, 



310 MRS. FRY AT NEWGATE PRISON. 

"Who held thee on the slippery steep 
Amid the trial hour. 

Who entereth to this dreary cell ? 

Who dares yon hardened throng, 
With fearless step and brow serene, 

In simple goodness strong ? 
She hath a Bible in her hand, 

And on her lips the spell 
Of loving and melodious speech, 

Those lion hearts to quell. 

She readeth from that Holy Book, 

And in its spirit meek, 
Doth warn them as those straying ones, 

Whom Christ vouchsafes to seek ; 
She kneeleth down, and asketh Him, 

Who deigned the lost to find, 
Back to his blessed fold to lead 

These impotent and blind. 

Then gently, as the mother lures 

Her child from folly's way, 
Good counsel eloquent she gives, 

To guide a future day ; 
When in the convict-ship they sail, 

And sore temptation tries, 
Or when an exile's lot they bear 

'Neath Australasian skies. 

For soon the dangerous deep they dare ; 
This is the parting hour ; 



MRS. FRY AT NEWGATE PRISON. 311 

And lo ! their burning eyeballs pour 

A strange and copious shower; 
Say ! — may not watchful angels scan 

Amid these tides that rise, 
Some pearl of penitence, to wake 

The rapture of the skies ? 

Oh beautiful ! though not with youth, 

Bright locks of sunny ray, 
Or changeful charms that years may blot 

And sickness melt away, 
But with sweet lowliness of soul, 

The love that never dies, 
The purity and truth that hold 

Communion with the skies : — 

Oh beautiful ! yet not with gauds, 

That strike the worldling's eye, 
But in the self-denying toils 

Of heaven-born charity, 
Press onward, to that genial home, 

That realm of perfect peace, 
Where, in the plaudit of thy Lord, 

All earthly labors cease. 



HAMPTON COURT. 



\ 



This palace, about twelve miles from London is, 
in its exterior, neither imposing nor symmetrical. 
A series of irregular quadrangles, portions of it are 
gratuitously accorded as abodes to the descendants 
of noble families, reduced in fortune ; so that it has 
been sometimes ironically called the "peer's poor- 
house." 

Originally built by Wolsey, and extorted from him, 
as a gift, by the jealous tyranny of his royal master, it 
was dilapidated during the wars of Cromwell, and 
beautified by William and Mary, who chose it as their 
favorite residence. In the conservatory, among many 
orange trees, two are pointed out as their coevals, 
which their antiquated aspect might seem to confirm. 
We paid our respects, to what visitants seldom overlook, 
the great, old Hamburgh vine. It has a chronology of 
nearly a century, and a whole green-house devoted to 
its accommodation. Its stalk is like the trunk of a 
tree, its main branch extends 110 feet, and its roots 
still further, running about eighteen inches below the 
surface. The gardeners, who were exceedingly proud 



CROMAVELL. 313 

of it, said they did not pour water upon its root, but 
washed the branches to refresh them. It produces an 
immense quantity of fruit ; in some seasons, we were 
told, about 1,400 pounds weight, or between 2,000 and 
3,000 rich black clustres, all of which are reserved for 
the royal table. 

Cromwell, in the height of his power, was fond of 
residing at Hampton Court. Here he solemnized with 
pomp the entrance of two of his daughters into the 
line of the high nobility ; one by her marriage with 
Lord Falconburg, the other with Lord Rich, heir to the 
earldom of Warwick. Here, too, his favorite daugh- 
ter, Mrs. Claypole, was smitten with death, and in her 
last life-struggle warned him of sin, and adjured him to 
repentance. Her earnest words, mingled with moans 
of pain, haunted his conscience as he wandered from 
room to room, in the restlessness of the disease that at 
length destroyed him. " It was at this period," says 
Howitt, in his interesting ' Visits to Remarkable Places,' 
" that George Fox, the founder of the Society of Friends, 
coming to Hampton Court, to beg him to put a stop to 
religious persecution, met him riding in the park, and 
in his own expressive language, as he drew near him, 
'felt a waft of death go forth from him ; ' and coming up 
to him, beheld him with astonishment, looking already 
like a dead man. George had been accustomed to 
have interviews with Cromwell, who used to express 
great pleasure in his society, and would say, ' Come 
again, come often, for I feel that if thou and I were 
oftener together, we should be nearer to each other.' 



314 ENGLISH SERVANTS. 

He now desired George to come to the palace again 
the next day, but he looked on him already as a dead 
man, and on going to the palace gate, found him too ill 
to be seen by any one, and in a few days he died." 

There are multitudes of pictures at Hampton Court, 
and a ceiling, painted by Sir James Thornhill, which 
many admire. Here, also, are the cartoons of Raphael, 
purchased and placed there by Charles the First. Yet 
the principal fascinations of this interesting spot, 
seemed to me of a rural order. The gardens ; the 
velvet turf of the broad parks ; the sound of the crystal 
fountains, sometimes falling into basins, where leaped 
up silver and golden-coated fishes ; the lofty trees, mu- 
sical with birds ; and the quiet seats amid shaded gravel 
walks, all conspired to soothe the feelings into serenity 
and repose. 

Much agreeable conversation had we amid those 
pleasant haunts, with loved English friends. A mar- 
riage which we had that morning attended, led our 
minds to the congenial subject of domestic happiness, 
and to the science of home-comfort, which seems to me 
better understood in the Mother Land, than in any 
other which I have critically examined. Among the 
details which promote it, is undoubtedly the excellent 
attendance of the servants. Each one is at his post, in 
the neatest costume, ready to maintain the clock-work 
regularity of the establishment. The interests of those 
whom they serve are their own ; in their sickness or 
sorrows they are afflicted, in their joys they rejoice, to 
their guests they show observance and honor. Thus 



ENGLISH SERVANTS. 315 

identifying themselves with those whose comfort they 
promote, they are happy in their station, and in the 
respect which attends the faithful discharge of their 
duties. They consider servitude no mark of disgrace, 
and sometimes continue with their employers ten, fif- 
teen, or twenty years, or throughout their whole lives. 
It is beautiful to see them, their countenances so expres- 
sive of contentment with their condition, uniting in the 
morning and evening devotions of the household, with 
whom their sympathies have been long amalgamated. 
The mistress of a family, thus sustained, has opportu- 
nity for the better points of her character to expand, 
and leisure to modify that of her children, as well as to 
enjoy the friends who partake of her hospitality. 

When I see the quiet dignity of the housekeepers of 
the Mother-Land, their calm, unruffled reliance, that 
what ought to be done, will be done at the right time, 
and well done, and the perfection they are thus enabled 
to give to their hospitality, it is difficult not to contrast 
it with our own hurried reception of unexpected guests, 
and the rapid inquiry of anxious thought, whether their 
comfort can be compassed without our hastening ab- 
ruptly from their presence, to superintend the culinary 
department. One remembers, too, the defection which 
may suddenly take place of all in the shape of assist- 
ants, and the disorder thus introduced into the domes- 
tic sphere, to the inconvenience of the best loved, and v 
cannot but fervently wish for such a correct balance of 
interests, that those who are nominally our helpers, 



316 TRAINING DOMESTICS. 

may no longer be actual annoyances, transient allies, 
or partial belligerents, but Christian friends. 

We may not, indeed, expect under our form of gov- 
ernment that precise definement of irank, or degree of 
respectful observance, which prevail in England : yet, 
if it were possible, by any change of measures, or 
heightened intercourse of kindness, to secure a more 
permanent continuance and stronger personal attach- 
ment, from those who serve us, such results would be 
worthy of earnest inquiry and strenuous effort. It was 
anciently the custom, in the New .England States, for 
a young matron to take under her roof a female child, 
and train her up, as an useful adjunct in the household. 
She was sometimes an orphan, and this gave to the 
transaction a feature of benevolence. An assistant was 
thus secured, whom it might be hoped that every year 
would render more efficient and more attached to those 
who protected her. The usage is now less prevalent, 
and the reason alleged is, that it is too much trouble. 
Trouble ? Yes. There is doubtless trouble in forming 
the habits of a child, in correcting such infirmities as 
may be corrected, and having patience with the rest, 
and in faithfully teaching right principles for this life 
and the next. Trouble ? Yes. But is there not also 
the payment of witnessing its improvement, of profit- 
ing by its exertions, of securing its affections, and of 
seeing it at last, if God will, a respectable member of 
the community ? Trouble ? Yes. And how many 
things are there in this world worth the having, that 



HAMPTON COURT. 317 

are to be attained by us women without some trouble ? 
Is there not trouble in attempting to naturalize foreign 
hirelings ; and when they have become partially accus- 
tomed to our idioms, see them flit away without warn- 
ing, like the shadow, and all our training lost, as water 
upon the earth, never to be gathered up again ? 

I trust these remarks will be forgiven, for the sake 
of the motive that prompted them. It is natural to 
desire to transplant to our own beloved, native land 
whatever we admire in a foreign clime, especially if it 
affects the beauty and order of domestic life, and the 
true happiness of that sex on whom its responsibilities 
devolve. 



'T was with a bridal party that we went 

To visit Hampton Court. Our thoughts were full 

Of thrilling pictures we had seen at morn, 

The youthful pair, the chapel, and the priest, 

The gathered groups that marked the holy rite, 

And that still smaller circle, in whose breasts 

"Wrought strong emotions, as the deathless vow 

Trembled on lips beloved. With earnest gaze 

The grateful poor, and that small Sunday class 

Blest with her teachings, who returned no more, 

Followed the bridal chariot, as it led 

With milk-white steeds the fair procession back 

To her paternal halls. Around the board, 

For rich collation spread, the green-house strew'd 

Its glowing wealth, and mid the marriage guests 



318 HAMPTON COURT. 

Like blossoms mixed, the bright-haired children sate, 

Delighted from a blessed bride to win 

Kind word or kiss. Then rose the pastor's prayer, 

And the sweet hymn, for music waits alike 

On Love and Faith, — on this world and the next. 

— But all too soon the fond leave-taking came, 

The parent's benediction, and the embrace 

Of loving kindred; for impatient steeds 

Curving their necks, by white-gloved coachmen reined, 

Waited the bride, and lo ! her silvery veil 

And snowy satin robe gave sudden place 

To traveller's graver costume. 

Thus doth fleet 
Woman's brief goddess-ship, and soon she takes 
The sober matron tint, content to yield 
Tinsel and trappings, if her heart be right, 
That in her true vocation she may shed 
A higher happiness on him she loves, 
For earth and heaven. 

As from her early home 
And pleasant gates the gentle bride passed forth, 
Big tears stood glittering in the old servants' eyes, 
Deepening their murmured benison on her 
Who was " so like the mother that was gone, 
The sainted mistress." 'T is a heaven-taught art 
To graft enduring love on servitude ; 
And often have I joyed to see how deep 
Around the hearths of England is that root 
Of comfort, whose entwining tendrils bind 



HAMPTON COURT. 319 

Each stratum of the compact household firm, 
The lowest to the highest ; those who serve, 
Not of their lot ashamed, and those who rule 
Regardful of the charity which counts 
A life-long service, as a bond of love, 
Here and hereafter. 

So, the wedding past, 
Bright in its hallowed hopes, but not without 
Some touch of tender grief ; for here, below, 
In all her proudest temples Joy doth set 
Lachrymatories, and her banquet-board 
Hath aye some subterranean path, that tends 
Unto the house of tears. 

And then, to break 
That heavy pause, which on the heart doth fall, 
"When what it loves departeth, forth we went, 
As I have said before. Well pleased we swept 
O'er vale and common, and by that green lane 
Where Wandsworth boasts its nested nightingales, 
By lordly manor, and o'er lonely heath, 
Whose furze and broom make glad the donkey tribe, 
Or 'neath the enormous chesntuts that o'ersweep 
Richmond, the loved of Thames, and by the shades 
Of Bushy Park, a monarch's late abode, 
Until the gates of Hampton Court we passed, 
And scanned its purlieus fair. The lime and yew 
Stood with inwoven arms, and countless flowers 
Amid their garden cells of bordering turf 
Wrought out a rich mosaic. Here the Maze 
With labyrinthine lines the foot allured, 



320 HAMPTON COURT. 

And there the pampered people of the pool 

Swam lazily, in gold and silver coats, 

To take some dainty morsel from the hand 

Of merry childhood. The old Hamburgh vine 

Round its glass palace groped with monstrous arms, 

And filled each nook with clusters, proud to load 

The royal table. In yon tennis-court 

How many a feat of strength and shout of mirth 

Have held their course, since from these halls arose 

The Christmas carol of old Tudor's time. 

Raphael's bold pencil here with wondrous power 

Survives, and many a modern artist decks 

Ceiling, and wall, and staircase. But 't is vain 

In lays like mine, to tell what pictures say 

From age to age ; for Painting may not bend 

To Poesy. She, on her pedestal, 

Robed with the rainbow stands, — and mocks at those 

Who, with a goose-quill and a drop of ink, 

Are fain to take her likeness. Quaint conceits 

Of him of Orange and his Stuart queen 

Adorn these haunts, — while frequent on the walls 

Their blended names in curious love-knot twine. 

Here, too, stout Cromwell stretched himself to die ; 

His pale lip sated with the love of power 

By blood obtained. 

But most of all we meet, 
"Where'er in musing reverie we tread, 
Wolsey, — the master-spirit, who upreared 
This princely pile, and from a germ obscure 
Towered up to such o'erwhelming magnitude 



HAMPTON COURT. 321 

Of power, that monarchs felt his dampening shade 
Fall on their greatness. 

Here his feasts were spread 
Magnificent, — and here, with clerkly skill, 
He fostered learning, while his secret thought 
Was how to make his haughty honors grow, 
And proudly throne them on a thunder-cloud 
For realms to kneel to. But the daring hand, 
That grasped so long the crowned lion's mane, 
Failed, and he fell, — fell low to rise no more. 
So, with a solemn sadness, he went down, 
As great minds do. 

Was there no penitence 
In that deploring eloquence, which blamed 
The folly of the man that serves his king, 
More than his God ? in that remorseful glance, 
Of retrospection, which so analyzed 
All pomps of life, and found them vanity ? 
In that humility of voice, which asked 
At Leicester- Abbey, with his broken train, 
But for that little charity of earth 
Which the dead beggar finds ? 

We trust the cloud 
Fell not in vain upon him, but restored 
His chastened spirit to the Pardoner. 

Is pride for man ? the crushed before the moth ? 
Is it for angels ? Answer, ye who walked 
Exulting on the battlements of Heaven, 
And fell interminably. Dizzy heights 
21 



322 HAMPTON COURT. 

Suit not the born of clay. Oh, rather walk 
With noiseless footstep, and with lowly eye, 
Bent on thine own original ; nor mark 
With taunt of bitter blame thy brother's fall/ 
In dust his frailties sleep. Awake them not, 
Nor probe the secrets of the curtaining tomb, 
But lead the memory of his virtues forth 
Into the sun-light. 

So shalt thou fulfil 
The Saviour's law of love. 



MARCH, AT DENMARK HILL. 



Methought this herald month of Spring 

Was wont a frown to wear, 
Or with capricious favor fling 

Her gifts and bounties rare, 

Even sometimes with a shrewish voice 

Among the hills to rave, 
And check the aspiring buds that burst 

Too soon their wintry grave. 

But here, like patron, dressed in smiles, 

The tinted turf she treads, 
And whispers to the humblest plants, 

To lift their trembling heads, 

And o'er the lustrous laurel-hedge, 
And where the vine-leaf curls, 

She bids the pendant dew-drops throw 
Their strings of braided pearls. 



324 MARCH, AT DENMARK HILL. 

Out peeps the Crocus from its nook, 
And looks with timid eye, 

To see if on the Snowdrop's brow 
A blight, like frost, may lie : 

But lo ! the expanded Primrose smiles, 

And the Ivy bids it hail, 
And freely in the morning beam 

Refresh its colors pale. 

It sees the bright Hepatica 
With the buxom Daisies play 

Their merry game of hide and seek, 
Until the closing day, 

It marks against the sheltering wall 
The Almond's broidered vest, 

And the princely Peach and Apricot, 
In all their glory drest, 

The modest Violet puts on 

Her robe of varied die, 
And to the banquet-hall of Spring 

Doth enter joyously. 

The mighty city hath a world 

"Within its heaving breast, 
And there the pulse of busy life 

Doth never pause nor rest. 



MARCH, AT DENMARK HILL. 325 

The city sends a greenhouse warmth 

From out its fostering heart, 
And bids the germs of intellect 

To sudden beauty start. 

But nature's efflorescence seeks 

The blessed sun in vain, 
Where London crowds her domes of stone, 

And rears the eclipsing fane. 

It is not so at Denmark Hill, 

Each plant finds room to spread 
Its little hand, and take the wealth 

A bounteous sky doth shed ; 

Finds room to ope its gentle eye 

On verdant lawn and vale, 
And have its tiny cradle rocked 

By every nursing gale ; 

To feel its infant lungs expand, 

From clogging coal-dust free, 
And hear the song of uncaged birds 

From each rejoicing tree. 

Here, too, a sacred plant doth spring, 

"Which once profusely grew 
Within the walls of Palestine, 

Surcharged with heavenly dew. 



326 MARCH, AT DENMARK HILL. 

Beside the convent's wicket-gate 

In ancient times it bent, 
And blossoms still on Asia's sands, 

By the roving Arab's tent. 

Upon Mount Bernard's cloud-wrapt cliff, 
Where the bitter tempest blows, 

It patient bides the chilling blast 
Of everlasting snows. 

And where our poor, red forest-race, 

Beside their fathers' grave, 
Had once a home, its foliage fair 

Did o'er their cabins wave. 

It findeth here a genial soil, 
And putteth forth each morn 

A rose-cup in an evergreen, 
That hath no hidden thorn. 

It bloometh for the stranger's hand, 

And when it shuts at night, 
Doth leave behind a secret spell, 

To make his visions bright. 

Young children, with their sparkling eyes, 
Culled its fresh buds for me, 

Before they knew its hallowed name 
Was Hospitality. 



MARCH, AT DENMARK HILL. 327 

And for the blessed balm it breathed, 

And for its cheering raj, 
When from the garden of my heart 

I was so far away, 

And for the fragrance of its flowers, 

And for its fruitage sweet, 
I '11 love the soil of Denmark Hill, 

While memory holds her seat. 

It was at the pleasant spot, which has given a subject 
to the foregoing poem, about four miles from London, 
on the sunny side of the Thames, that I first learned to 
consider the month of March other than a season of 
wild winds, or a codicil to old Winter's will and tes- 
tament. There I saw with surprise, as early as its 
second week, the primrose and violet, the polyanthus 
and hepatica, blooming in the parterres ; and rhubarb, 
brocoli, cauliflowers, and other esculents, vigorously 
flourishing in the kitchen-gardens. 

On returning from France, in January, we were 
struck with the superior verdure of England, whose 
ever-living hedges scorned the livery of Winter. Still 
the degree of cold, though far less severe than what 
we had been accustomed to feel at home, was rendered 
more disagreeable, and probably more hurtful, by its 
combination with humidity. This excess of moisture, 
causing even the trunks of trees to grow green and 
mossy, united, as it often is, with a murky, misty atmos- 



328 ENGLISH HOSPITALITY. 

phere, makes an English winter, though comparatively 
mild, a depressing season to those nurtured under sun- 
nier skies. 

But the bright footsteps of Spring made amends for 
all. At Denmark Hill, and its vicinity, I was enwrap- 
ped in a region of flowers, where, amid a knot of fami- 
lies, derived from the good Gurney root, I sojourned 
for a time, more as an inmate than a guest. The 
party with whom I left home, returned to our native 
land in February ; but by the advice of friends on 
both sides of the water, I forbore the inconvenience 
and risk of a winter passage, and in my consequent 
loneliness, the kindness of the English character shone 
conspicuously forth. I was not permitted to remain 
for a day at a public house ; but in different abodes, 
where I was induced to become a visitant, my literary 
occupations were cared for, had patience with, and up- 
held, while every effort was made to replace the heart- 
solitude of a stranger, by the sweet home-charities. 

To whatever spot it was supposed I might desire to 
see, I was courteously and zealously taken, by a vari- 
ety of friends. Among these, was the home of a gen- 
deman-farmer, a class of the English community for 
whom I had high respect, and whose habitudes I was 
gratified to have opportunity to observe. It was 
at Upton Lea, in the neighborhood of Windsor Castle, 
that I was invited to pass a day or two at the residence 
of a young and interesting couple, who conducted a 
large rural establishment. Broad fields were there 
under the neatest and most skilful processes of culti- 



RURAL LIFE. 329 

vation, while the healthful, happy faces of the laborers 
presented a cheering picture of industry and content. 
Connected with the establishment was a large and pro- 
ductive garden, adorned in its more tasteful parts by 
winding gravel-walks, shrubbery, and rockwork, while 
here and there immense baskets, containing tons of 
mould, gave nutriment to hyacinths and other fragrant 
flowers, and nesting birds poured from vine and trellis 
their descant of love. 

It was here that I first fully heard the thrilling, une- 
qualled notes of the nightingale. The youthful mis- 
tress of this abode, with her clustering curls flowing 
gracefully over her neck, seemed the Lady Bountiful 
of the village. Ever had she, in her work-basket, 
some useful garment for the children of those employed 
on the farm, as well as for those of the neighboring 
poor, whom she weekly collected around her, for instruc- 
tion in the use of the needle, and other branches of 
knowledge. She also taught them sacred music, until 
by the training of her rich voice they became such 
proficients as to constitute a no despisable choir. They 
performed every Sunday at the neat chapel which had 
been erected by her husband, and his brothers, for the 
benefit of these people. By their liberality, also, the 
clergyman received his support ; their fortune, thus 
nobly expended, having been entirely the result of 
agriculture. 

Why is it so generally supposed, in my own coun- 
try, that this honorable profession must exclude the 
pleasures of taste and intellect, and bind the thoughts 



330 CAPACITIES FOR FRIENDSHIP. 

down to a succession of homely toils or petty emolu- 
ments ? Need it be so, if there was a spirit of content- 
ment with moderate gains, and if the desire of becom- 
ing rich was not made the ruling motive ? Rural life, 
as it is seen in many parts of England, combined with 
simplicity and systematic diligence, love of letters, 
refinement, and active benevolence, is but another name 
for true independence and rational happiness ; or, in 
the words of Cowper, 

" Friendly to thought, to virtue, and to peace, 
Friendly to all the best pursuits of man." 

I have already spoken of the hospitalities of Eng- 
land. In city and country, in many varieties of rank 
and style of living, it has been my lot to find them 
always perennial and pure. They surpass my power 
of either description or praise. 

The English, more than most nations, may be char- 
acterized by capacities for true and enduring friend- 
ship. They do not put forth their best virtues at first 
sight, nor overwhelm a stranger with courtesies, nor 
incur risks, like King Hezekiah, by the display of their 
most precious treasures to foreign eyes. They make 
no protestations beyond what they feel, and are willing 
to embody in deeds. 

A similar principle of integrity seems to pervade 
social intercourse. They speak what they conceive to 
be truth, whether it is likely to render them popu- 
lar or not, whether it coincides or not with the opin- 



DOMESTIC CHARACTER. 331 

ions and prejudices of those with whom they converse. 
They are also distinguished by a love of order. The 
ranks are clearly defined, and are not ambitious to en- 
croach on established boundaries. Children are taught 
to obey. Servants are not ashamed of their stations. 
The young submit to the discipline of schools and col- 
leges. The course of education is to give a solid base, 
rather than to hang out a broad, gay banner. Strict- 
ness and punctuality, in those who rule, beget the spirit 
of trust in those who are subordinate, and aid to keep 
things upon their right foundations. 

The old English character is emphatically best seen 
at home, by the fireside, and at the family altar. In 
the enjoyment of the comfort which they so well un- 
derstand ; in the exercise of a hospitality, which, more 
than any other people, they know how to render per- 
fect ; in the maintenance of that authority on which the 
strength and symmetry of the domestic fabric depends, 
and in the admixture of religious obligation with the 
daily routine of duties and affections, there is a straight- 
forwardness, a whole-heartedness, that commands re- 
spect, and incite those, who have descended from them, 
to glory in their ancestry. 

While at Upton Lea, I went with Mr. and Mrs. N., 
and their sister, Miss H., to Windsor Castle, the classic 
ground of Eton, and the sequestered churchyard, 
where Gray wrote that unequalled Elegy which finds 
an echo in every bosom. How touching is the circum- 
stance, that it should have been repeated by Wolfe, the 
night before his fatal attack on Quebec, and by our 



332 WINDSOR CASTLE. 

own great statesman, Webster, as the footstep of death 
drew nigh. 

Beautiful, indeed, is Windsor Forest, and the noble 
park, which is said to be fourteen miles in circumfer- 
ence. To St. George's Chapel, an elegant specimen of 
Gothic architecture, the steps of the traveller are invol- 
untarily turned ; for there, amid the " majesty of buried 
England," is the celebrated monument to the Princess 
Charlotte, that young mother over whom a whole na- 
tion wept. 

The palace of Windsor stands upon an elevated site, 
and is the proudest residence of English royalty. The 
House of Brunswick have been especially partial to it, 
and George the Fourth lavished immense sums on its 
embellishment. Its terrace, nearly two thousand feet 
in length, with its formidable rampart of freestone, fur- 
nishes a promenade unsurpassed in extent and beauty 
of prospect. From the Round Tower, so famed in 
history, one might almost fancy the burly form, and 
fierce brow of William the Conqueror looking forth. 
The interior of the Castle is in harmony with its sur- 
roundings. The corridors, the galleries, the paintings, 
the state apartments, are wonderfully magnificent. 
Among the rich cabinets, is a curious old ebony one, 
formerly belonging to Cardinal Wolsey, — perhaps the 
repository of some* of the secrets of that ambition by 
which he fell. 

Having express permission from Lord Uxbridge to 
see every part of the Castle, we proposed taking a 
glance at the rooms appropriated to her Royal High- 



WINDSOR CASTLE. 333 

ness, — a bantling of some six months old. Where- 
upon, our cicerone, who was quite intelligent and cau- 
tious, replied, with eyes marvellously dilated, " No, 
indeed ! I have never been allowed to see them my- 
self." 

Housekeeping propensities moved us willingly to 
follow our leader through the kitchens, pastry-room, 
larder, &c, and to take interest in the nice and com- 
plicated instrumentalities by which six hundred per- 
sons, who are comprised in the queen's retinue, are 
daily supplied with creature-comforts. " Do you see 
them two boilers, over that furnace ? " said an explain- 
ing voice. " Well, in each on 'em, five pecks of good 
potatoes is steamed for dinner, without a drop of water 
ever touching them." 

The various departments of this immense building 
were exhibited by different personages. The show- 
man of the gold plate was particularly zealous in his 
office, and fond of repeating that it cost more than two 
millions of pounds sterling. It extended through sev- 
eral apartments, locked in glass cases, and arranged on 
long tables. There were superb candelabras, plateaus, 
salvers, piles of massy plates, and every conceivable 
article of splendor for the table. Among these were 
salt-cellars in a curious variety of forms, sea-shells, and 
fat donkies, with panniers. There was also the great 
gold tiger's head, with eyes of pearl and teeth of rock- 
crystal, surmounted by a peacock flaunting with pre- 
cious stones, taken from Tippoo Saib, and accounted 
the chief glory of his barbaric throne. 



334 gray's monument. 

Never have I beheld such a display of magnificence 
as in this favorite abode of England's Queen. Was it 
a bee, from the greenhouse flowers, that buzzed in my 
ear, — " cui bono ?" or a voice in the niusing heart ? 



o 



One prayer of grateful poverty 
Shall better soothe the soul. 

Surfeited with display, we drew near the village 
church, whose precincts the lyre of Gray has hallowed. 
Rain-drops hung heavily among the drooping branches, 
and weighed down the slender vines that crept over 
the low mossy gravestones. It was not difficult to 
imagine the slender form of the bard, meditating in this 
secluded spot, his brow pale from the studious cloisters 
of Cambridge, for he often sought relaxation and re- 
freshment from learned toils amid these rural shades. 
Love of the mother, as has been the case with so many 
distinguished men, predominated through his life, and 
deepened at its close. An epitaph from his hand to 
her memory, in that same quiet churchyard, records, 
that " she had shown the most tender offices of love to 
many children, one only of whom had the unhappiness 
to survive her." 

At a short distance is his own lofty monument, on 
which are engraven, in large characters, stanzas from 
his Elegy. It is erected in ornamental grounds be- 
longing to the Penn family, who keep them open for 
visitants and strangers. Their own pleasant mansion 
is seen through embowering trees, where Gray was 



GRAVE OF WILLIAM PENN. 335 

wont to pass a part of the summer months, with an 
endeared relative. In its vicinity is the grave of Wil- 
liam Penn, severe in its simplicity, marked only by a 
mound of earth. And there, memories of that plain- 
garbed, firm-souled man, who crossed the ocean to bear 
the spirit of peace, and to found our beautiful city of 
brotherly love, mingled with those of the classic, pen- 
sive, picturesque poet, whose Elegy, standing as we 
did in its secluded birthplace, we felt would be read 
and loved, as long as the " still sad music of humanity" 
shall vibrate through the hearts of men. 



HAMPSTEAD. 



Come out to Hampstead. For 't is beautiful 
To 'scape the city's atmosphere of smoke, 
"Which, like an inky curtain, wrappeth it, 
And drink the breezes of this vale of health. 
'T is beautiful to view the broad expanse, 
County on county stretching, till at last 
The fading outline, like a misty dream, 
Blends with the blue horizon. 

Yon wide heath, 
From which the prospect opens, oft hath lured 
The truant urchins of the neighboring school 
To leave their restless bed, and scale the walls, 
Stealing a starlight ramble. Fancying oft 
A vengeful usher in each prickly bush, 
Whose intercepting arms their path oppose, 
They snatch a trembling taste of liberty, 
Dashed with the dregs of fear. Ah, happier then 
Deem they the cottage child, who wakes at morn 
Unvexed by thistly learning, uncondemned 
To pore o'er lexicons, oft drenched in tears, 
But at its simple leisure free to roam, 



HAMPSTEAD. 337 

Filling its pinafore with furzy flowers, 

Or now and then some rough and sparkling stone 

Making its prize. 

But greater wealth I found 
Than richest flowers, or diamonds of the mine, 
Beneath a quiet roof. For she was there, 
Whose wand Shaksperian knew to touch at will 
The varying passions of the soul, and chain 
Their tameless natures in her magic verse. 
Fast by that loving sister's side she sat, 
Who wears all freshly, mid her fourscore years, 
The beauty of the heart. 

He, too, was there, 
The tasteful bard of Italy, who crowned 
Memory with wreaths of song, when life was new ; 
So she with grateful love doth cherish him, 
And for his green age from her treasure-hoard 
Give back the gifts he gave. 'T is wise to make 
Memory our friend in youth, for she can bring 
Payment when Hope is bankrupt, and light up 
Life's evening hour with gladness. There they sat, 
Plucking those fruits of friendship, which by time 
Are mellower made, and richer. And I felt 
It was a pleasant thing to cross the sea 
And listen to their voices. There they sat, 
Simply serene, as though not laurel-crowned, 
And glad of heart, as in their youthful prime, 
A trio, such as I may ne'er expect 
To look upon again. 



22 



338 HAMPSTEAD. 

Whene'er I think 
Of rural Hampstead, and would fain recall 
Its lovely scenes, their brightest tissue fades, 
Like a dim picture, and those forms alone 
Stand forth and breathe, their lips still uttering sounds 
Like music. 

Such eternity hath mind 
Amid the things that perish. 



Among the pleasant drives for which I was indebted 
to Mrs. B., of Portland Place, while passing a few days 
at her elegant mansion, was one to pay our respects to 
Miss Joanna Baillie, at Hampstead. This remarkable 
lady is above the common height, erect and dignified 
in her person, and of truly cordial manners. On my 
arrival, she had just returned from a long walk to visit 
the poor, and though past the age of seventy-six, and the 
day chill and windy, she seemed unfatigued, and even 
invigorated by the exercise. She resides with a beloved 
sister, several years older than herself, who still retains 
a beaming and lovely countenance. 

With them was Rogers, the veteran poet, who has 
►• numbered his eightieth winter, but still keeps a per- 
petual smile of Spring in his heart. His polished 
manners make him a favorite in the higher circles, 
while the true kindness of his nature is attractive to 
all. Many from my own land can bear witness to his 
polite attentions, and to the exquisite collection of the 
fine arts, which his house in London exhibits; and 



ROGERS.' MISS BAILLIE. 339 

among the masters of the lyre in foreign realms, there 
is none of whom I think with more regret, that I shall 
see their faces no more on earth. 

The sublimity of Miss Baillie's poetry is felt on both 
sides of the Atlantic. She is a native of Scotland, and 
sister of the late celebrated physician of that name, 
whose monument is in Westminster Abbey. Whether 
it was the frankness of her nature, that touched the 
chords of sympathy, I know not ; but it was painful to 
bid her farewell. 

Those who have been impressed by her tragic power 
in the " Plays of the Passions," will not fail to appre- 
ciate that more humble and sweet emanation of genius, 
a recent birthday tribute to her sister Agnes, of whom 
I have spoken, — the loved companion of her days. 
Surely I shall be thanked for adding the following 
fragment of it. 



•o" 



" So here thou art, — still in thy comely age 
Active arid ardent. Let what will engage 
The present moment, whether hopeful seeds 
In garden-plat thou sow, or noxious weeds 
From the fair flower remove, or ancient lore 
In chronicle, or legend rare explore, 
Or on the parlor hearth with kitten play, 
Stroking its tabby sides, or take thy way 
To gain with hasty step some cottage door, 
On helpful errand to the neighboring pooz*, 
Active and ardent, — to my fancy's eye 
Thou still art young, in spite of time gone by. 
Oh, ardent, liberal spirit ! quickly feeling 
The touch of sympathy, and kindly dealing 



340 MRS. HALL. THE KOSART. 

With sorrow and distress, forever sharing 
The unhoarded mite, nor for to-morrow caring ; 
Accept, dear Agnes, on thy natal day, 
An unadorned, but not a careless lay." 

Numbered with other cherished recollections was a 
call at Old Brompton, on Mrs. S. C. Hall, the writer 
of " Sketches of Irish Character," and other spirited 
tales that portray the scenery and customs of that 
"warm-hearted and weeping isle," of which she is a 
native. Her husband possesses great taste and skill in 
the fine arts, and is the editor of several splendidly 
illustrated volumes, two of which, bearing the title of 
" Gems," are selections from the ancient and modern 
poets of Great Britain, with concise biographies and 
criticisms. Their present residence, bearing the name 
of " The Rosary," was perfumed when I saw it by the 
breath of violets, and ringing with the carol of birds ; 
a genial retreat for spirits united in the pursuits of 
literature and the bonds of love. The mother of the 
authoress, Madam Fielding, a lady of amiable manners 
and countenance, finds a pleasant home with these her 
only children, and in their duteous care, and affectionate 
attentions, it would seem that time passed over her, un- 
marked by those changes which it is wont to bring to 
life's decline. 

Talk not to me of castles, moated round, 

With antique tower and battlement arrayed ; 

Talk not to me of palaces, I've found 

So sweet a haunt, that these are lost in shade ; 



LITERARY CHARACTERS. 341 

A fairy cottage with its attic hues, 

A garden, where the freshest violets blow, 
A sacred nook, for dalliance with the muse, 

Where flowers and statues breathe, and pictures glow ; 
Hearts filled with love, the classic thought that twine 

And draw the shamrock forth to purer air ; 
A mother, beauteous in her life's decline, 

And ever gladdened by their duteous care. 
How blest from noise and restless pomp to flee, 
And taste serene repose, sweet Rosary, with thee. 



Having always considered individuals who have at- 
tained distinction in the fields of intellect, as objects of 
higher interest than any modification of natural scenery, 
or architectural skill, I counted myself fortunate in being 
able to bear away personal recollections of so many, 
especially of my own sex. Among these were the Hon. 
Mrs. Norton, Miss Jane Porter, the Countess of Bless- 
ington, Mrs. Austin, Mrs. Hofland, Mrs. Kemble Butler, 
Miss Agnes Strickland, Miss Pardoe, and Lady Valsi- 
machi, formerly the consort of Bishop Heber. Some 
disappointments I was compelled to regret, especially 
my inability to accept the pressing invitation of Mrs. 
Opie, to visit her in Norfolk, and the absence of Mrs. 
Howitt, in Germany, whom I had much desired to meet. 
The invalid health of Miss Barrett, then just commenc- 
ing her splendid poetical career, caused her to seclude 
herself from strangers, and the filial devotion of Mary 
Russell Mitford was at that time her absorbing occupa- 



342 MISS MITFORD. 

tion. The constant, cherishing care, which she exer- 
cises over an aged parent, of whom she is the only 
child, adds lustre to her reputation as an author. For 
years, she left his side scarcely for an evening, and 
received calls only during those hours in the afternoon, 
when he regularly took rest upon his bed. She was 
ever in attendance upon him, reading to him, cheering 
him by the recital of passing events, and pouring into 
his spirit the fresher life of her own, and doubtless find- 
ing in these holy duties their own " exceeding great 
reward." Not long after my return to my native land, 
she was called to shed the mourner's tear over that 
venerable parent, to whom she had been as a minister- 
ing angel. 

Yet it was my extraordinary privilege, frequently to 
enjoy familiar intercourse with Miss Edgeworth, whom I 
should have gone to Ireland to visit, had she not decided 
to pass the greater part of the winter in London. To be 
seated by her fireside, to find her interested in my little 
concerns, so frank, so appreciative, so confiding, — to 
listen to her voice whose " Simple Susan," and "Barring 
Out," had charmed my childish years, seemed at first an 
illusion, but such an one as her admirers at home would 
willingly purchase, even by the most boisterous voyage 
over the ocean that divides them. Her conversation, 
like her writings, is varied, vivacious, and delightful. 
Her kind feelings towards our country are well known ; 
while forgetfulness of self, and happiness in making oth- 
ers happy, are marked traits in her character. Her per- 
son is small, and delicately proportioned, and her move- 



MISS EDGE WORTH. 343 

ments full of animation. She was at the house of a love- 
ly sister, much younger than herself, whose ill health 
called forth such deep anxiety and untiring attention, 
and for every favorable symptom such fervent grati- 
tude, as seemed to blend features of maternal tender- 
ness with sisterly affection. It is always gratifying to 
know that those, by whose superior intellect we are 
charmed or enlightened, have their hearts in the right 
place. Many such illustrations delighted me while 
abroad, in the varied and beautiful forms of domestic 
love and duty. 

Truthful and tender as thy pictured page 

Flows on thy life. Oh, it was joy to me 
Thine earnest welcome to my pilgrimage 

And friendly intercourse so warm and free ; 
For in my own far land, both youth and sire, 

Held willing captives of thy lore refined, 
Will of thy features and thy form inquire, 

And keep the transcript in their loving mind ; 
Yea, merry children, who with glowing cheek 

Have o'er thy stories linger'd night and day, 
Will lift the fervent eye to hear me speak 

Of her who held them oft times from their play, 
And closer press, as if to show a part 
Of the delight thy smile enkindled in my heart. 



WESTMINSTER HALL. 



Well ! one must own this is a goodly room, 
Of vast and fair proportions, where at ease, 

The tallest sons of Anak might have towered, 
Waltzing or promenading, as they please, — 

The Norman hunter-king hath left behind 

A lordly gift, to keep his red elf-locks in mind. 

And here, they say, the gay and fickle son 

Of the brave Black Prince held a revel proud, 

Feasting ten thousand guests. I wonder where 
They served or seated such a mighty crowd, 

While with a right good-will that scorned control 

The huge sirloin they carved, and drained the wassail- 
bowl. 



Amid the royal train, methinks, I see 

Old John of Gaunt, whose dark, prophetic frown 
Dwells on his banished son, while mad with glee 

Unthinking Richard shakes his rubied crown, 
Reckless, as when he rushed with beardless face 
To meet Wat Tyler's mob, where Walworth reared his 
mace. 



WESTMINSTER HALL. 345 

Ten thousand guests ! Alas, poor thoughtless king ! 

Mid all those joyous shouts, the roof that rent, 
Eose there no vision of thy future woes ? 

Usurping Bolingbroke, with stern intent ? 
The crowd, whose loud hosannas turned to hate, 
And Pomfret- Castle's deeds, of dire, mysterious fate ? 



I cannot laugh in England, — I have tried, 
But a majestic shadow seems to rise, 

Like Pallas lofty, or like Dian cold, 

And put to flight my mirthful melodies ; 

And this is well enough, since we were made 

Surely for nobler ends, than the light jester's trade. 



I cannot laugh in England, when I've tried, 

Although thee 's much to cheer both heart and eye 

It seems as if a lessoned child decried 
Teachers and magistrates, or lifted high 

A loud guffaw in its grave mother's face 

At some ill-chosen hour, — a fearful want of grace. 



Yet if I fail to laugh, I still may trust 

Wiser to grow, and bring some seeds away 

To plant at home, and yield a healthful fruit 
For my young children, when I'm laid in clay, 

And that 's a better husbandry than Mirth, 

Mocking at sober Thought, may often boast on earth. 



346 WESTMINSTER HALL. 

Here are the various courts of Themis' dome, 
I've entered all, yet paid no lawyer's fees ; — 

High-Chancery, and Admiralty too, 

Queen's Bench, Exchequer, and the Common-Pleas, 

And heard their varied eloquence, who wear 

Such curious flaxen wigs, to hide unfrosted hair. 



And I have seen them pass in robes of state, — 
Those noble Judges of this ancient clime, — 

On, through this hall, by the wild Norman reared, 
To ope their session at the autumn prime ; 

While in close ranks the assembled people rose, 

To give them honor due, in whom their rights repose. 

And sure, the heartfelt reverence of a land 
Is justly paid to those, whose lore profound 

Maintains the sacred majesty of Law, 

And throws a shield the lowliest home around, 

Guarding the hearth-stone from the robber's broil, 

And bringing shame to vice, and gain to virtuous toil. 

Westminster Hall, which traces back its antiquity to 
William Rufus, is one of the largest apartments unsup- 
ported by pillars, being 270 feet in length and 74 in 
breadth. History names it as the scene of one of the 
grand revels of the unfortunate Richard Second, when 
ten thousand guests shared his banquet. It was ren- 
dered memorable to me by a different, and more majestic 



OPENING THE SESSION OF THE COURTS. 347 

pageant, the passing through it of the twelve judges of 
England, to open the annual session of the courts. In 
their robes of state, and preceded by the Lord High 
Chancellor of the realm, they walked onward, slowly, 
amid the acclamations of the people, and took their seats 
in their respective places of jurisdiction. Their dignity 
of bearing, and brows marked by profound thoughts, 
justified the respect manifested by the dense throng 
assembled on the occasion. Though unaccustomed to 
see such pomp surrounding the judiciary in my own 
land, I could not but rejoice at every mark of reverence 
for the authority of law, believing that he who decries 
even in externals the sacredness of justice, may weaken 
the safeguards of his own fireside, or edge the steel of 
the assassin. 

The full-bottomed wigs of the judges, and the less 
ample ones of the barristers, disclosing, as they often 
did, bright hair of an opposing color, and smooth 
young faces, did not fail to attract our attention. Being 
taken into the respective courts, I opened my republi- 
can ears wide, expecting an eloquence commensurate 
w T ith this pomp of prelude. But the first cause that I 
heard argued before her Majesty's criminal judges, 
happened to be concerning the seizure of a quantity of 
beer, for debt ; and its most elaborate point of juris- 
prudence, whether the container, and the thing con- 
tained, were comprehended in the same category, viz., 
whether the casks were the property of the creditor, or 
of the defendant brewer. 

Several weeks afterwards, we visited the Privy 



348 LORD BROUGHAM. 

Council in Downing-Street. There we saw Lord Baron 
Parke, Judge Bosanquet, and Dr. Lushington, and 
one who more particularly ri vetted our gaze, Lord 
Brougham, with his expressive Scottish physiognomy. 
The clerk of the court was young Reeve, the accom- 
plished translator of De Tocqueville, and Guizot's " Life 
of Washington." 

Busily at his table wrote Lord Brougham with a 
coarse gray goose-quill. A case of compensation was 
being argued by the eminent barrister, Pendleton, with 
a mellifluent voice, and great quietness of manner. 
Birge, the distinguished advocate of the Jamaica plant- 
ers, spoke well, and others also. But still busily wrote 
on my Lord Brougham. What mighty trains of thought 
can thus absorb the intrepid and invincible defender of 
the desolate Queen Caroline? 

A document was read, when suddenly raising his 
head, with divers nervous twitchings about the mouth, 
he observed, that the word "several," which ought to 
occur, was omitted ; and seeming to suspect some quib- 
ble, kindled up, and demanded a collation of instru- 
ments and manuscripts. 

There, I have heard him speak. A right, sharp voice 
has he too. How many things have great men the 
power to think of at once ? Pursuing an elaborate 
theme, as it would appear, yet listening so closely to a 
reader, as to detect a missing particle. I once heard 
Dr. Gallaudet, the Principal of an institution for the 
deaf and dumb, in Hartford, Conn., say, that he could 
use the manual alphabet with each hand, conversing at 



SEVERITY OF WINTER. 349 

the same time with two silent pupils, yet that it was an 
intense mental effort, and not long to be sustained. 

But what was my woman's mind, which is not able to 
manage more than one subject at a time, busying itself 
about on this occasion ? While the observed of all ob- 
servers was uttering those few words, he threw his pen 
at some distance from him on the table. Could I pos- 
sibly become the owner of that cast-off stylus ? Could 
I carry it home, to America? "Would not my antiquarian 
friends, who are so rabidly eager for his signature, go 
distracted with joy over the pen that inscribed it ? 

I drew insensibly nearer to the spot where it lay. It 
was a miserably worn-out pen. He will surely take a 
better one. Can I not beg it of the clerk ? Can I not 
even lay my own hand upon it ? A cupidity, heretofore 
unknown, came over me. Might I not thus imagine 
how some of Mrs. Fry's poor convict girls felt, when 
they gloated over their mistresses laces, or other con- 
traband articles ? 

But in a shorter time than it has taken to arrest 
these flying thoughts, yes, in the twinkling of an eye, 
he seized that coveted old goose-quill, and drove it 
faster than ever. It is all over. My Lord Brougham's 
pen will never travel with me to the United States. I 
felt a twinge of disappointment, more however for my 
autograph-hunting friends, than for myself. Methought, 
he did not look amiable, as he sate forcing that pen over 
the paper. Whereupon I invidiously remembered the 
circumstance of his once bringing out a new coach in 
London, with simply the letter B on its pannels, and 



350 ORATORIO. 

how a punster had remarked, " it was a pity to see so 
fine an equipage with a bee outside, and a wasp within." 
The room devoted to the Privy-Councils is beauti- 
fully finished with English Oak. "We could not but 
recollect that here Victoria stood in her innocent girl- 
hood, to take the formidable oaths of office, at the death 
of William IV., and almost fancied that we heard the 
trumpet-call of the poet, 

" Oh maiden heir of kings ! 
A king hath left his place.'' 

Almost countless were the objects of interest, with 
which my English friends sought to gratify my taste, 
and employ every interval of leisure. Schools, lectures, 
scientific and benevolent institutions, parks, palaces, 
museums, zoological gardens, docks, dioramas, bazaars, 
• galleries of pictures and sculptures, all were exhibited 
and explained with a kindness that never slumbered. 

Music lent her enchantments in the form of a variety 
of concerts. I wish I were able to give the most distant 
idea of the emotions created by some of the grand ora- 
torios at Exeter-Hall. In "Judas Macabseus" six 
hundred performers, with voice and instrument, gave 
force to the glorious conceptions of Handel. At first 
the press of sound was painful, but then, a great and 
majestic delight pervaded the whole being. An audi- 
ence, which was computed at 4,000 persons, listened in 
rapt silence; and the stream of carriages, pressing 
homeward under the darkness of night, through a rather 



catlin's entertainments. 351 

narrow entrance, required the exertions of the police, 
to prevent the lock of wheels, and other accidents. 

Catlin's large collection of paintings and curiosities 
of our own red Indians, at Egyptian Hall, excited much 
attention from the English public. He occasionally ex- 
hibited their customs by moving groups and tableaux 
vivants, having trained persons painted and dressed in 
the costume of the different tribes, among whom it was 
not difficult to detect his own leading form and strong 
physiognomy. On one of these occasions, the buffalo 
dance filled an interlude, with the most horrible tramp- 
ing, and contortions of the agile personages enveloped 
in the skin of that ungainly animal. A bright little 
girl, who had been greatly interested in a bridal scene 
by those dark-browed actors, whom she had been in- 
formed were Americans, glancing furtively at me, said, 
" Why, mamma, look ! Mrs. Sigourney is white." 

At the Coliseum, being enclosed in a small room, 
we were raised by steam to an elevation of eighty feet, 
where, standing apparently on a circular roof, stretched 
beneath us the panorama of the mighty city, with its 
domes, towers, spires, palaces, winding river, and 
thread-like bridges. It would seem that the view was 
taken from the summit of St. Paul's, and the illusion 
is perfect. For a moment we were reminded of his 
necromancy who, from a pinnacle of the temple, spread 
out before Pure Eyes, all the " kingdoms of the world 
and the glory of them." 

The wonderful exhibition of embroidery by Miss 
Linwood, in Leicester-Square, is well worthy of atten- 



352 MISS lin wood's embroidery. 

tion, even from those who have visited the unparalleled 
establishment of the Gobelines at Paris. There you 
are moved with pity for the pale operatives, who with 
the glowing patterns behind them, exhaust both health 
and life in their joyless imitations. Here, the ex- 
quisiteness of the tissues are in accordance with the 
native taste and sphere of my own sex, wrought out by 
the instrument whose use was divinely taught them in 
Paradise, and of which they ought never to be ashamed. 

The force and delicate mingling of light and shade, 
by Miss Linwood, both in figures, landscape, and histor- 
ical design, and the felicity with which she has copied 
the ancient masters, are truly remarkable. Her collection 
consists of more than sixty pieces, among which the 
" Salvator Mundi," from Carlo Dolci, " Jepthah's Rash 
Vow," from Opie, and the " Judgment upon Cain," quite 
a large picture, are distinguished by their power and 
beauty. She entered this elegant department of needle- 
work, at the age of thirteen, and pursued it with un- 
weared industry, until she had completed her 78th year. 
She has led a life of great respectability, and still sur- 
vives, having nearly reached fourscore years and ten. 

Another exhibition of female genius and perseverance 
is the splendid collection of wax figures, by Madame 
Tussaud, in Portman-Square. Here are groups of the 
striking, or illustrious characters of various lands, many 
of them actual likenesses, modelled from life, by this 
accomplished woman. Their costumes are in accord- 
ance with their rank, and the age in which they lived ; 
and in some of the more modern figures, the deception 



MADAME TUSSAUD's WAXWORK. 353 

is heightened by the effect of internal machinery. 
Fiesche rolls his eyes fiercely ; Charlotte Corday seems 
to breathe while she slumbers ; Cobbett, in his usual gray 
dress, and slouched hat, sitting on a bench, turns his 
head as if regarding the groups around. Some ladies, 
about to take a seat near him, carefully left room so as 
not to incommode the interested observer. Henry the 
Eighth, with his coarse, bloated form, spreads out amid 
his six wives ; the two repudiated and two decapitated 
ones looking as serene as the others. Mary, Queen 
of Scots, is receiving a harsh lecture from the un- 
courtly John Knox. Cardinal Wolsey towers in his 
unfallen pride. Voltaire wears his sardonic smile, and 
Napoleon is stretched mournfully upon the camp-bed, 
where death found him at St. Helena. The stiffness 
and angularity of limb which of old used to attend such 
representations, do not exist here, and it requires no 
great effort of imagination to think some of the forms 
are instinct with life. 

There is an apartment devoted to terrific representa- 
tions, and called " The Chamber of Horrors," to which, 
of course, the entrance is optional. Some of these are 
of the victims who perished by the guillotine during 
the revolution, and whose likenesses Madame Tussaud 
took immediately after their death, at the command of 
the National Assembly. Her reminiscences of France, 
in its stormiest period, are incorporated with her own 
Memoir, a recently published volume, where she is 
represented of highly respectable origin, education, and 
character. Its perusal will add to the interest with 
23 



354 DULWICH COLLEGE. 

which this exhibition, and its venerable artist, now 
more than eighty years of age, are visited by the 
stranger in London. 

I would fain, were it in my power, to do justice to 
such subjects, describe some of the curiosities, at the 
Polytechnic Institution, or the pictures in the National 
Gallery, and at Dulwich College. At the latter place 
are several fine Morillos, and, also, a provision of be- 
nevolence by its founder, where six poor men and 
women, having past the age of sixty, are supported 
in comfort and respectability. Will not this charity 
come up in blessed remembrance, when the tints of 
the pencil are faded and forgotten ? 

Saw, at 50 Pall-Mall, a remarkable collection of 
pictures belonging to Mr. Vernon, among which we 
particularly designated " The Broken Heart ; " " Too 
Late at the Well ; " " The New Scholar," by Mulready ; 
and "Uncle Toby and Widow Wadman," by Leslie. 
But it is a losing office to delineate with the pen any 
exquisite painting. The instrument and instrumental- 
ities are alike inadequate. 

What then shall I say of the British Museum, that 
unequalled repository of the wonders of every clime, 
and the munificence of its own ? Nothing at all. 

This omnium gatherum of an article is already too 
full. It is time to release both myself and my readers. 



RUNNIMEDE. 



'T was beautiful, in English skies, 

That changeful April day, 
When beams and clouds each other chased, 

Like tireless imps at play, 
And father Thames went rolling on, 

In vernal wealth and pride, 
As in our slender boat we swept 

Across his crystal tide. 



And then, within a tasteful cot, 

The pictured wall we traced, 
"With relics of the feudal times, 

And quaint escutcheons graced 
Of fearless knights, who bravely won 

For this sequestered spot 
A name from wondering History's hand, 

That Death alone can blot. 



356 RUNNIMEDE. 

Methought a dim and slumbrous veil 

Enwrapt the glowing scene, 
And strangely stole our wearied eyes, 

And each bright trace between, 
And at our side, behold ! a king 

His thronging minions met, 
Arrayed in all the boasted power 

Of high Plantagenet. 



See ! see ! his sceptered hand is raised 

To shade a haggard brow, 
As if constrained to do a deed 

His pride would disallow. 
What now, false John ! what troubleth thee ? 

Finds not thine art some way 
To blind or gull the vassal train, 

And hold thy tyrant sway ? 



He falters still, with daunted eye 

Turned toward those barons bold, 
"Whose hands are grappling to their swords 

With firm indignant hold ; 
The die is cast ; he bows him down 

Before those steel-girt men, 
And Magna Charta springs to life 

Beneath his trembling pen. 



RUNNIMEDE. 357 

His white lip to a smile is wreathed, 

As their exulting shout 
From 'neath the broad, embowering trees 

Upon the gale swells out ; 
Yet still his cowering glance is bent 

On Thames' translucent tide, 
As if some sharp and bitter pang 

He from the throng would hide. 



Know ye what visiteth his soul, 

When midnight's heavy hand 
Doth crush the emmet cares of day, 

And wield reflection's wand ? 
Forth stalks a broken-hearted sire, 

Wrapt in the grave-robe drear, 
And close around his ingrate heart 

Doth cling the ice of fear. 



Know ye what sounds are in his ear, 

When wrathful tempests roll ; 
When heaven-commissioned lightnings search, 

And thunders try the soul ? 
Above their blast young Arthur's shriek 

Doth make the murderer quake, 
As if anew the guiltless blood 

From Rouen's prison spake. 



358 RUNNIMEDE. 

Away, away, ye sombre thoughts ! 

Avaunt, ye spectres drear ! 
Too long your sable wing ye spread 

In scenes to memory dear : — 
So, quick they vanished all away, 

Like visioned hosts of care, 
As out on the green sward we went, 

To breathe the balmy air. 



Then from its home, in English soil, 
v, A daisy's root I drew, 
Amid whose moistened crown of leaves 

A healthful bud crept through, 
And whispered in its infant ear 

That it should cross the sea, 
A cherished emigrant, and share 

A western home with me. 



Methought it shrank, at first, and paled ; 

But when on ocean's tide 
Strong waves and awful icebergs frowned. 

And manly courage died, 
It calmly reared a crested head, 

And smiled amid the storm, 
As if old Magna Charta's soul 

Inspired its fragile form. 



EUNNIMEDE. 359 

So, where within my garden-plat 

I sow the choicest seed, 
Amid my favorite shrubs I placed 

The plant from Runnimede, 
And know not why it may not draw 

Sweet nutriment, the same 
As when within that noble clime 

From whence our fathers came. 



Here 's liberty enough for all, 

If they but use it well, 
And Magna Charta's spirit lives 

In even the lowliest cell, 
And the simplest daisy may unfold, 

From scorn and danger freed : — 
So make yourself at home, my friend, 

My flower of Runnimede. 



The daisy of this poem, transplanted from the spot . 
where Magna Charta was signed, accompanied me 
home. In my lonely state-room, amid the surging of 
the angry ocean, at the first dawn of every morning, it 
looked upon me with its honest face. It was of their 
happy genus who mind no trifles, and make the best 
of every thing. So it surmounted the voyage, when 
rarer plants perished. I gave it a good place in my 
garden, and it never seemed to know but what it was 
at home. There it flourished vigorously, for two years, 



360 ST. MARY OVERT. 

and as its reputation extended, slips were taken from 
it for antiquarian friends. But then, through the 
mistake of a man employed about the grounds, this 
cradling from the birthplace of English liberty, was 
uprooted and trundled away among noteless weeds. 

Runnimede, as a locality, owes its interest to the 
past. A graceful cottage has been erected there by 
the proprietor of that consecrated ground, who bears 
the name of Harcourt. Relics of the olden time are 
garnered therein, and the walls of one of the apart- 
ments are decorated by the coats of arms of all those 
barons who awed King John into the signature so 
sacred in the annals of English history. 

Visited, about the same time, the ancient and beau- 
tiful church of St. Saviour, in the borough of South- 
wark, formerly called St. Mary Overy. It has recently 
been repaired at great expense, — the older portions 
bearing the date of 1106. Laid our hands on the 
coarse table in the vaulted council chamber, the cele- 
brated Lady-Chapel of old, where Bonner sate in state, 
sentencing the martyr-victims. Among the numerous 
tombs, where it was pleasant to pause and meditate, 
was that of Bishop Launcelot Andrews. There is, 
also, an imposing monument to the poet Gower, erected 
in 1400, overloaded with quaint emblematic sculpture, 
and kept in good preservation by Earl Gower, a de- 
scendant of the bard, who shares with Chaucer the 
honored epithet of " father of English verse." 

Saw the immense docks, and thronging shipping in 
the Thames, and passed through White-Chapel and 



HEALTHFUL FAMILIES. 361 

some of those notorious parts of London, where one 
shrinks at the vices by which poor human nature is 
held in bondage. Admired, anew, the symmetry of 
the Monument ; the adaptation of the Bank of Eng- 
land to its tenacious purposes, and the splendid mansion 
of my Lord Mayor. Stopped at St. Mary's, Wool- 
wich, — the church where the voice of the devout John 
Newton invited sinners to repentance, and heard the 
weekly morning lecture, delivered there by the Rev. 
Mr. Dale, whose appearance and elocution were ex- 
ceedingly pleasing, and who has given evidence of 
poetical genius, as well as of a spirit of piety. 

Indebted for an exploration of most of the last- 
named places, to the politeness of Mrs. Oldfield, at 
whose house, at Champion Hill, I saw one of the most 
interesting pictures, a family of twelve beautiful and 
highly educated children, the youngest of whom had 
surpassed early childhood, surrounding happy and dig- 
nified parents, all fondly attached to each other, and 
mingling their voices in perfect harmony with the 
music of the harp and piano. 

In the rearing of large and healthful families, me- 
thought old Albion far excelled her ambitious daughter 
in the West. Climate may have something to do with 
their physical vigor, but habit still more. The little 
ones breathe daily the open air. Their muscles are 
educated. They are simply fed on " food convenient 
for them." Their own dinner is usually at twelve, and 
their appetites not excited by exposure to a table of 
varied viands, or rich condiments, which enervate adult 



362 BOKOUGH-ROAD SCHOOL. 

strength. Subordination, the privilege of childhood, is 
better secured to them. Their little minds are not 
fevered with doubt whether they are to rule or be ruled. 
The sentiment of respect, constantly cherished within 
them, is a sedative principle, and contributes to serenity. 

The parents, on the other side of the water, seem 
less exhausted than we ; better able to meet the trials 
involved in their position, and not too busy to enjoy 
that domestic happiness which is their natural solace. 

The industrial schools of England are on a rational 
plan, very thoroughly carried out. The useful and 
nice performances of the needle, to which those girls 
are gradually inured, who at first knew not on which 
finger to place the thimble, are truly surprising. At 
the Borough-Road School, four hundred female pupils 
exhibited specimens of needlework, of different grades 
of excellence, some of which, arranged in cases, we 
purchased, to amaze the little ones at home. They 
also read with propriety, and sustained several recita- 
tions. 

In another portion of the building, six hundred boys, 
from five to thirteen, were examined in arithmetic, and 
some of the more distinguished, solved mathematical 
problems. They all executed calisthenic evolutions in 
a very rapid and systematic manner ; sang in unison 
scientifically, and exhibited drawings of architectural 
designs, done with great accuracy. Precision and obe- 
dience strongly characterized their movements, as if all 
those one thousand minds were formed on the same 
model. 



FREE SCHOOLS OF BOSTON. 363 

One thousand minds ! thus rescued from ignorance, 
thus protected from vice. What a noble investment. 
Could any national bank yield a richer dividend ? 

Such institutions cheat the prisons and the hangman. 
They throw a better guard round the liberties of a peo- 
ple than the pomp of armies. 

Establishments of the same nature, though varied 
by our different forms of government, are springing up 
in my own land. I bless God for them. Especially 
do the Free Schools of Boston illustrate a system both 
simple and sublime, diffusing a high degree of intelli- 
gence among the lower classes, without being confined 
to them, and unfolding the secret of that predominance 
of the " Athens of New England," and the " Old Bay 
State," which they have so long and so nobly sus- 
tained. 



CLIFTON. 

Farewell to London ! Mournfully would these 
words be spoken, were there no hope of revisiting it. 
On the time-worn turrets of that Abbey where sleep 
the mighty dead ; on the broad and breezy parks ; on 
the fair mansions of friends, I looked, and said, men- 
tally, — not for the last time : no, if it please God, not 
for the last time. 

Smiles and tears were contending on the face of an 
April morning, as we took our departure. Much fine 
scenery was admired during our journey of more than 
a hundred miles, through a variegated country. Bath, 
with its noble buildings, drawn from its own rich 
quarry of cream-colored stone, made an elegant ap- 
pearance. 

Bristol, and its lofty cathedral, pointing back to mo- 
nastic times and to the usurper Stephen, and, also, the 
beautiful Church of St. Mary RedclifFe, attracted our 
admiration. Yet neither these imposing objects, nor 
its resemblance to ancient Rome, by being seated on 
seven hills, so strongly impressed us as the recollec- 



MRS. HANNAH MORE. 365 

tion that it Lad given birth to him who " wove of Tha- 
laba, the wild and wondrous song." 

Still more strongly were we impressed, at Clifton,. 
by the sight of the mansion where Hannah More 
closed her venerable years. Almost as a pioneer for 
her sex, she entered the field of intellectual labor, 
warning them to forsake frivolity of pursuit, and exert, 
in their own proper sphere, their latent power to im- 
prove and elevate society. With a versatility equalled 
only by her persevering industry, she adapted the ru- 
diments of moral truth to the comprehension of the 
collier, the farmer's boy, and the orange-girl ; marked 
out the map of life for a princess ; or depicted in the 
heights of his sublime piety, the " very chiefest of the 
apostles." An " upright and clarified common sense " 
guided her through daily and difficult duties, and in the 
words of her biographer, " having wings upon her 
shoulders, wherewith she might have soared, had it 
pleased her, she yet chose to combat on the same 
ground with ignorance, and prejudice, and folly." 
Her writings, at their earliest issue from the press, 
were welcomed and circulated in America, and she 
testified for its inhabitants a kindness which increased 
with her advancing years. Indeed, friendly feelings 
towards our country seemed prevalent among all with 
whom we associated in Great Britain. Symptoms of 
disaffection or hostility between the nations were dep- 
recated by the wisest and best, as unnatural, inexpe- 
dient, and unchristian. It was freely acknowledged 
that whatever promoted amity between two nations, 



366 SPIRIT OF AMITY. 

united by the ties of an active commerce, common lan- 
guage, and kindred origin, was highly desirable. And 
to us, while strangers and sojourners in that foreign 
land, it was cheering to find such numbers ready to 
respond to the words of that remarkable writer, Car- 
lyle, " rejoicing greatly in the bridging of oceans, and 
in the near and nearer approach, which effectuates 
itself in these years, between the Englands, Old and 
New, — the strapping daughter, and the honest old 
parent, glad and proud to see such offspring." 

The mother and daughter! Ought they not to 
dwell together in unity, believing, as they do, in " one 
Lord, one faith, one baptism ? " Let every traveller 
,i labor to that end ; and though the lines that he traces 
be as slight and soon effaced as the spider's web, let 
him throw them forth for good, and not for evil. 

Clifton, with its bold, rocky scenery, is after my own 
heart. There, at the base of beetling cliffs, and through 
overhanging defiles, the Avon, which in so many other 
places glides with a serene classic flow, rushes in with 
tides of thirty-five feet. We saw many elegant man- 
sions in commanding situations, and a suspension-bridge 
in progress, where workmen were crossing by rope 
and basket at a tremendously dizzy height. 



Spot, where the sick recover, and the well 
Delighted roam, I bear thee on my heart, 
In all thy portraiture of cliff and shade, 
And the wild-footed Avon rushing in, 



CLIFTON. 367 

With Ocean's kingly message. 

Here we stand, 
To take our last farewell of England's shore ; — 
And mid the graceful domes that smile serene 
Through their embowering shades, recognize one, 
"Where she, who gave to Barley- Wood its fame, 
Breathed her last breath. 'T is meet that she should be 
Remembered by that sex, whom long she strove 
In their own sheltered sphere to elevate, 
And rouse to higher aims than Fashion gives. 
Methinks I see her mid yon parlor nook, 
In arm-chair seated, calm in reverend age, 
While that benevolence, which prompted toils 
For high and low, precepts for royal ears, 
And horn-book teachings for the cottage child 
And shepherd-boy, still brightens in her eye, — 
Auspicious image for this parting hour. 

I give thee thanks, Old England ! full of years, 
Yet passing fair. Thy castles ivy-crowned, 
Thy vast cathedrals, where old Time doth pause, 
Like an o'erspent destroyer, and lie down, 
Feigning to sleep, and let their glory pass, — 
Thy mist-encircled hills, thy peaceful lakes, 
Opening their bosoms mid the velvet meads, 
Thy verdant hedges with their tufted bloom, 
Thy cottage children, ruddy as the flowers 
That make their thatch-roofed homes so beautiful, — 
But more than all, those mighty minds that leave 
A lasting footprint on the sands of time, — 



368 CLIFTON. 

These well repay me to have dared the deep, 
That I might look upon them. 

So farewell ! 
I give thee thanks for all thy kindly words, 
And deeds of hospitality to me, 
A simple stranger. Thou art wonderful, 
With thy few leagues of billow-beaten rock, 
Lifting thy trident o'er the farthest seas, 
And making to thyself in every zone 
Some tributary. Thou, whose power hath struck 
The rusted links from drooping Afric's neck, 
And bade thy winged ships in utmost seas 
Be strong to rescue all her kidnapped race, 
Bend the same eagle eye and lion heart 
To mercy's work beneath thine Indian skies, 
And in the bowels of thine own dark mines, 
And where the thunder of the loom is fed 
By childhood's misery, and where the moan 
Of him, who fain would labor if he might, 
Swells into madness for his famished babes, — 
Bow down thy coronet and search for them, 
Healing their ailments with an angel's zeal ; 
Till all, who own thy sceptre's sway, be known 
By the free smile upon their open brow, 
And on their fervent lip a Christian's praise. 

And now, farewell, Old England, 

I should grieve 
Much at the thought to see thy face no more, 
But that my beckoning home doth seem so near 



CLIFTON. 369 

In vista o'er the wave, that its warm breath 
Quickeneth my spirit to a dream of joy. 

Peace be within thy walls, Ancestral Clime ! 
And in thy palaces, and on thy towers, 
Prosperity. And may no war-cloud rise 
'Tween thee and the young country of my birth, 
Vine of thy planting, in the western wild, 
Where red men roamed. 

Oh ! lift no sword again, 
Mother and Daughter ! Shed no more the blood 
That from one kindred fountain fills your veins. 
Show the poor heathen, in earth's darkest place, 
The meaning of our faith by its sweet deeds 
Of hope and charity. 

So may ye stand, 
Each on her pedestal that breasts the surge, 
Until the strong archangel, with his foot 
On sea and land, shall toll the knell of time. 



24 



ICEBERGS. 

A sail of four hours brought us from Clifton to our 
steam-ship, The Great Western, which awaited us in 
the deeper waters. She took us under her protection, 
during a great rain, and spread for us all the comforts 
and accommodations which those palaces o^f the wave 
know so well how to supply. 

High head-winds, and grand, bold, violet-robed surges, 
now and then tossing up crescent-shaped coronets of 
green or white, attended the earlier part of our voyage. 
Forty passengers chose various modes of amusement, or 
employment, mostly pursued with inertness, or ending 
in sleep, the chief resource. Four times in twenty-four 
hours, those who were thus inclined, heeded the sum- 
mons to a luxuriously furnished board. 

I am led to believe that a certain regimen may be 
pursued to repel, or at least to modify sea-sickness. 
One of its principal elements must be an energy of will, 
a determination not to yield to the pitiless monster. 
Cheerful society, light reading, walking much in the 
open air upon deck, when the weather permits, and 
overcoming the repulsion at the sight of food, by brave 



SEA-SICKNESS. 371 

and regular appearance at the table, are a part of the 
prescribed system. If occasionally prostrated, or beaten 
off the ground, it is well to return to the charge with an 
invincible courage. I have some confidence in this 
course. At all events, my own sad experience on the 
outward voyage was so slightly repeated, that I gained 
the envied appellation of a " good sailor." 

Pleasant society we found among all on board, though 
my own more immediate circle was composed of Mr. 
Bates, the celebrated banker from London, with his 
lady, both natives of New England ; Miss Jaudon, of 
Philadelphia ; Rev. Dr. Way land, President of Brown 
University; Hon. Isaac Davis, of Worcester; and Sir 
Joseph De Gaurcey LafTan, a baronet of Irish extraction, 
who having explored the Eastern Continents, proposed, 
by visiting America, to " put a girdle round the globe." 
I mention these names thus particularly, because com- 
munity in danger was soon to lay the foundation of a 
more lasting remembrance, and a deeper trust in the 
One Almighty Friend. 

The morning of Sunday, April 18th, was serene and 
cold. Walking on the deck, before breakfast, I could 
not but imagine that I detected the latent chill of ice 
in the atmosphere ; but the apprehension was not ad- 
mitted by those who had more knowledge of those 
watery regions than myself. Our noble ship, The Great 
Western, vigorously pursued her way, and the deep, 
slightly agitated and strongly colored, was intensely 
beautiful. 

We had divine worship in the saloon, and the dead- 



372 FIRST APPEARANCE OF ICEBERGS. 

lights, which had been in for nearly a week, were re- 
moved. The service was read by Captain Hoskins, and 
the Rev. President Wayland gave an impressive dis- 
course on the right education for eternity, from the 
passage, " Now see we through a glass darkly, but then 
face to face." 

At seven we went on deck to see a most glorious 
sunset. The king of day, robed in surpassing splendor, 
took his farewell of the last Sabbath that we were to 
spend at sea. While we were gazing with delight, a 
huge dark mass arose exactly in the brilliant track of 
the departed orb. It was pronounced by the captain to 
be an iceberg, three quarters of a mile in length, and 
its most prominent points one hundred feet high. Of 
course its entire altitude was four hundred feet, as only 
one third of the ice mountains appear above the sur- 
face. It presented an irregular outline, towering up 
into sharp and broken crags, and at a distance resembled 
the black hulks of several enormous men-of-war, lashed 
together. Three others of smaller dimensions soon c#me 
on in its train, like a fleet following the admiral. We 
were then in north latitude 43°, and in longitude 48° 
40". We literally shivered with cold ; for on the ap- 
proach of these ambassadors from the frigid zone, the 
thermometer suddenly sank below the freezing point, 
leaving the temperature of the water 25°, and of the 
atmosphere 28°. 

On this strange and appalling scene the stars looked 
^out, one after another, with their calm, pure eyes. All 
at once a glare of splendor burst forth, and a magnificent 



FIELD ICE. 373 

aurora borealis went streaming up the concave. The 
phosphorescence in our watery path was unusually 
brilliant, while over our heads flashed and dazzled this 
vast arch of scintillating flame. We seemed to be at 
the same time in a realm of fire and in a realm of frost ; 
our poor, fleshly natures surrounded by contradictions, 
the very elements themselves bewildered and at con- 
flict. And there they were, dashing and drifting around 
us, — those terrible kings of the Arctic, — in their moun- 
tain-majesty, while, like the tribes in the desert, our 
mysterious path was between the pillar of cloud, and 
the pillar of flame. 

At nine, from the sentinels stationed at different 
points of observation, a cry was made of " ice ahead ! 
ice starboard ! ice leeward ! " and we found ourselves 
suddenly imbedded in field ice. To turn was impossible ; 
so a path was laboriously cut with the paddles, through 
which our steamer was propelled-, stern foremost, not 
without peril, changing her course due south, in the teeth 
of a driving blast. 

When we were once more in an open sea, the cap- 
tain, not concealing from the passengers their danger, 
advised them to retire. This we did a little before mid- 
night, if not to sleep, at least to seek that rest which 
might aid in preparing us for future trials. At three 
we were aroused by harsh grating, and occasional con- 
cussions, which caused the strong timbers of the ship to 
tremble. This was from floating masses of ice, by which, 
after having skirted an expanse of field ice fifty miles 
in extent, we were surrounded. It varied from two to 



374 WELL-MANAGED STEAMER. 

five feet in thickness, rising from eight inches to a foot 
and a half above the water, and interspersed with ice- 
bergs, some of them comparatively small, and others of 
portentous size and altitude. By the Divine blessing 
upon nautical skill and presence of mind, we were a 
second time extricated from these besieging and para- 
lyzing foes ; but our path still lay through clusters and 
hosts of icebergs, which covered the whole sea around 
us. The captain, who had not left his post of respon- 
sibility during the night, reported between three and 
four hundred distinct ones, visible to the naked eye. 
There they were, of all forms and sizes, careering 
in every direction. Their general aspect was vitreous, 
or of a silvery whiteness, except when a sunbeam 
pierced the mist ; then they loomed up, and radiated 
with every hue of the rainbow, striking out turrets, and 
columns, and arches, like solid pearl and diamond, till 
we were transfixed with wonder at the terribly beauti- 
ful architecture of the northern deep. 

The engine of The Great Western accommodated 
itself every moment, like a living and intelligent thing, 
to the commands of the captain. " Half a stroke ! " 
and its tumultuous action was controlled ; " a quarter 
of a stroke ! " and its breath seemed suspended ; " stand 
still ! " and our huge hulk lay motionless upon the 
waters, till two or three of the icy squadron drifted by 
us ; " let her go ! " and with the velocity of lightning 
we darted by another detachment of our deadly foes. 
It was then that we were made sensible of the advan- 
tages of steam, to whose agency, at our embarkation, 



DELIVERANCE FROM DANGER. 375 

many of us had committed ourselves with extreme 
reluctance. Yet a vessel more under the dominion of 
the winds, and beleaguered as we were amid walls of 
ice, in a rough sea, must inevitably have been destroyed. 

By nine in the morning of April 19th, it pleased God 
to set us free from this great danger. Afterwards, 
when the smallest sails appeared on the distant horizon, 
our excellent captain caused two guns to be fired, to 
bespeak attention, and then by flags and signals warned 
them to avoid the fearful region from which we had 
with such difficulty escaped. Two tiny barks came 
struggling through the billows to seek a more intimate 
conversation with the mighty steam-ship, who, herself 
not wholly unscathed from the recent contest, willingly 
dispensed her dear-bought wisdom. There was a kind 
of sublimity in this gift of advice, and -interchange of 
sympathy between the strong, experienced voyager, and 
the more frail, white-winged wanderers of the trackless 
waste of waters. It seemed like some aged Mentor, 
way-worn in life's weary pilgrimage, counselling him 
who had newly girded on his harness, " not to be hi^h- 
minded, but fear." 

As we drew near the end of our voyage, we felt how 
community in danger had endeared those to each other,, 
who, during the sixteen days of their companionship 
upon the ocean, had been united by the courtesies of 
kind and friendly intercourse. Collected as the pas- 
sengers were from various climes and nations, and 
many of them about to separate without hope of again 
meeting in this life, amid the joy which animated those 



376 PARTING OF PASSENGERS. 

who were approaching native land and home, the truth 
of the great moralist's axiom was realized, that " there 
is always some degree of sadness in doing any thing for 
the last time." Hereafter, with the memory of each 
other will doubtless blend the terrific sublimity of that 
Arctic scene, which it was our privilege to witness, and 
the thrill of heartfelt gratitude to our Almighty Pre- 
server. 



There was a glorious sunset on the sea, 
Making the meeting-spot of sky and wave 
A path of molten gold. Just where the flush 
Was brightest, as if Heaven's refulgent gate 
One moment gave its portals to our gaze, 
Just at that point, uprose an awful form, 
Rugged and huge, and freezing with its breath 
The pulse of twilight. Even the bravest brow 
Was blanched, for in the distance others came, 
Sheer on the far horizon's burning disk, 
Attendant planets on that mass opaque. 

They drifted toward us, like a monster-host, 

From Death's dark stream. High o'er old Ocean's 

breast, 
And deep below, they held their wondrous way, 
Troubling the surge. Winter was in their heart, 
And stern destruction on their icy crown. 
So, in their fearful company the night 
Closed in upon us. 



ICEBERGS. 377 

The astonished ship, 
Watched by its sleepless master, held her breath, 
As they approached, and found her furrowing feet 
Sealed to the curdling brine. 

It was a time 
Of bitter dread, and many a prayer went up 
To Him, who moves the iceberg and the storm 
To go their way and spare the voyager. 

Slow sped the night-watch, and when morn came up 

Timid and pale, there stood that frowning host, 

In horrible array, all multiplied, 

Until the deep was hoary. Every bay, 

And frost-bound inlet of the Arctic zone, 

Had stirred itself, methought, and launched amain 

Its quota of thick ribbed ice, to swell 

The bristling squadron. 

Through those awful ranks 
It was our lot to pass. Each one had power 
To crush our lone bark like a scallop-shell, 
And in their stony eyes we read the w r ill 
To do such deed. When through the curtaining mist 
The sun with transient glimpse that host surveyed, 
They flashed and dazzled with a thousand hues, 
Like cliffs with diamond spear-points serried o'er, — 
Turrets and towers, in rainbow banners wrapped, 
Or minarets of pearl, with crest of stars, 
So terrible in beauty, that methought, 
He stood amazed at what his glance had done. 



378 GRATITUDE. 

I said, that through the centre of this host 
'T was ours to pass. 

Who led us on our way ? 
Who through that path of horror was our guide ? 
Sparing us breath to tell our friends at home 
A tale of those destroyers, who so oft 
With one strong buffet of their icy hands 
Have plunged the mightiest ship beneath the deep, 
Nor left a lip to syllable her fate. 

Oh Thou ! who spread us not on Ocean's floor 
A sleeping-place unconsecrate with prayer, 
But brought us to our blessed homes again, 
And to the burial-places of our sires, — 
Praise to Thy holy name ! 



SIGHT OF NATIVE LAND. 



Hills ! — my hills ! — whose outline dear 
O'er the morning mist doth peer, 
Blessed hills ! whose wings outspread. 
Seemed to follow while we fled, 
When our parting glance was bent 
On our country's battlement, 
As with white sails set we sped 
Far away, o'er ocean dread, 
How our glad return ye greet 
With a smile of welcome sweet ! 
He, who fashioned earth and sea, 
Made no hills more fair than ye. 

Spires ! that break the rolling tide 
Of man's worldliness and pride, 
Asking with your Sabbath chime 
For his consecrated time, 
And with holy chant and prayer 
Soothing all his woe and care, 
Minster and cathedral high 
Ne'er have shut ye from mine eye, 



380 SIGHT OF NATIVE LAND. 

With your chuchyard's grassy sod, 
Where my musing childhood trod, 
With your music on the glade 
Which the roving Indian staid, 
Who of yore, at twilight dim, 
Startling caught the white man's hymn, 
Hallowed spires ! that fleck the vale, 
Heaven's ambassadors, all hail ! 

Trees ! with arch of verdure bright, 
Gleaming on the gazer's sight, 
Have ye met the wintry blast 
Bravely, since we saw ye last ? 
Was your spring-tide wakening sweet, 
With the grass-flower at your feet ? 
Nest the birds with breasts of gold 
Mid your branches, as of old ? 
Pours the thrush his carol fair ? 
Glides the crimson oriole there ? 
Have ye o'er their callow young 
Still your kind protection flung? 
Blessings on ye ! Dews and rain 
Fill with sap each healthful vein ; 
Blessings on ye ! Wear serene 
Nature's coronal of green, 
And no woodman's savage blade 
Dare your birthright to invade. 

Roofs ! that in the vista rise 
Rude or towering toward the skies, 



SIGHT OF NATIVE LAND. 381 

Not by wealth or taste alone 
Are your inmate treasures shown ; 
Though perchance your firesides show 
Signs of penury and woe, 
Yet where'er with prayerful sigh 
Sits the mother patiently, 
Plying still her needle's care 
For the child that slumbers there, 
Whereso'er in cottage low 
Rocks the cradle to and fro, 
There the eye of God doth turn, 
There the lamp of soul doth burn : 
Hoofs ! that nurse this deathless light, 
Precious are ye in His sight. 

Throngs ! I see ye on the strand, 
As the steamer nears the land, 
Some might fortune's favorites seem, 
Borne on pride or pleasure's stream ; 
Others, marked by weary care, 
Labor's rugged livery wear ; 
Ye, who humbly dig the soil, 
Brow and hand embrowned with toil, 
If ye eat my country's bread, 
If to work her weal ye tread, 
Faithful even in lowliest sphere, 
Friends ye are, like kindred dear. 

Since I last these scenes surveyed, 
Who have in the tomb been laid ? 



382 SIGHT OF NATIVE LAND. 

"Who the bitter tear have shed 
O'er the bosom of the dead ? 
Who beneath the sable pall 
Have the poet's lyre let fall ? 
"Who, that won a nation's trust, 
Sleep in silence and in dust ? 
While with faint and trembling fires, 
Fearfully my heart inquires, 
Hears it not an answer swell, 
" God hath ordered, — all is well." 

Home ! — my home ! — though earth and sky 

Veil thee from my longing eye, 

Still though envious leagues remain 

Ere thy vine-clad porch I gain, 

Lightest leaf that wooed the gale, 

Frailest plant with petals pale, 

That beside thy threshold grew, 

Ne'er have faded from my view ; 

On my cheek, mid cloud and storm, 

Still thy parting kiss was warm ; 

O'er my dreams thine accents free 

Stole like angel melody ; 

Little footsteps, light as wings, 

Hands that swept the tuneful strings, 

Lips that touched with filial flame, 

Syllabled a mother's name, 

Watch and ward for thee have kept 

Marshalled round me while I slept ; 

And when loftier mansions prest 

Countless pleasures on their guest, 



SIGHT OP NATIVE LAND. 383 

Held thee in thine armor bright, 
Nearest to me day and night. 
Home ! by absence made more dear, 
Heaven be praised that thou art near ; 
Heaven be praised, that o'er the sea 
Once more I return to thee. 

"What has been the traveller's gain ? 
Sight of foreign land and main ? 
Sight of visioned forms that sweep 
O'er the castle's ruined steep ? 
Sight of haunts to history dear ? 
Sight of palace, king, or peer ? 
No ! — the joy that lights the eye, 
When the native shore draws nigh, 
In the heart a deeper sense 
Of its humbling impotence, 
On the lip a grateful strain, — 
This hath been the traveller's gain. 



" Travelling," said Lord Bacon, " is to the younger 
sort a part of education." Neither are its advantages 
confined to the season of youth. They may act strongly 
upon the ripened character, in higher forms than 
through the pleasure derived from the works of art, or 
the excitement of sublime scenery, or the deepened 
knowledge of the topography of this little planet, or 
the varied languages and customs of those who inhabit 
it. They may be made to bear upon the moral senti- 
ments and innate charities, that " more excellent kind 



384 BENEFITS OF TRAVELLING. 

of knowledge," in which the most advanced pupil may 
always find something to learn, though the snows of 
threescore years and ten have gathered upon his 
temples. 

Among the satisfactions of travelling, which are not 
limited to any particular period of life, are the emo- 
tions with which we traverse the spots which antiquity 
has hallowed. The pyramid, in its sandy vale ; the 
column of Paestum, with the moonbeam upon its 
broken capital ; the Parthenon, the Acropolis, the Col- 
iseum, the Tiber flowing so quietly, while the decrepit 
mistress of the world slumbers amid the relics of 
departed greatness, touch new sources of feeling and 
of contemplation. This pleasure is doubtless more 
acute in the bosoms of those who inhabit a land where 
such vestiges are unknown, whose history points not 
beyond the roving Indian with his arrow, or the sav- 
age court of Powhatan, or the storm-driven sails of The 
May Flower. To us there is inexpressible interest in 
I the monuments of the Mother Land, a portion of whose 
fame we are pleased to claim as our own birthright. 
We are never weary of pursuing the mouldering traces 
of the wall or aqueduct of the Romans, and collecting 
the fragments of their hypocausts and altars. "We love 
to muse amid the low-browed arches and ruinous clois- 
ters of the Saxons, the ivy-crowned turrets of the Nor- 
mans, the cathedrals and baronial halls, which, surviv- 
ing the lapse of ages, and the shocks of revolution, 
teem with the traditions of a buried race. 

Another unutterable gratification to the enthusiastic 



INTERCOURSE WITH THE ILLUSTRIOUS. 385 

traveller, is the sight of the living, who by their deeds 
or writings have made mankind wiser and happier. 
We seek this privilege with the greater zeal, from the 
consciousness that it must be fleeting, and the appre- 
hension that it may not be accorded to us again. 
Gray hairs are seen sprinkling the heads of the masters 
of the lyre, and we feel that another year might have 
been too late to clasp their hand, or catch the music of 
their voice. The statesman, the hero, the philanthro- 
pist, bend beneath the weight of years, and we thank 
God that we came before the cold marble should have 
told us where they slumbered. We find clustering 
roses blooming in the garden of the man of genius, who 
so oft led us captive, while time passed unheeded. But 
where is he ? Where ? No reply, save a sighing sound 
through the trees that he planted, and we drop the- tear 
of the mourner in his deserted halls. 

Among the advantages of travelling, it is common to 
allow a high place to the knowledge of human nature. 
A still higher acquisition might be mentioned, the 
knowledge of ourselves. By remaining always at 
home, we are involuntarily led to magnify our own 
importance. Our daily movements may be points of 
observation to the villagers who surround us; our 
footsteps be listened for by the ear of love ; the casual 
paleness of our cheek be painfully noted at the hearth- 
stone. Marked attentions and fond observances create 
a habitude of expecting them, which may become mor- 
bid ; perhaps a belief that they are fully deserved, and 
of course a dissatisfaction when they are withheld. 
25 



386 SELF-KNOWLEDGE. 

But you, who are thus unconsciously garnering your- 
self up in exclusiveness and self-esteem, go pitch your 
tent among a people of strange language, walk solitary 
along their crowded streets, be sad, be sorrowful, be 
sick, where " no man careth for your soul." Go forth 
among the millions, and weigh yourself, and carry the 
humbling result onward with you through life, atom as 
you are, in the mighty creation of God. 

This increase of self-knowledge often brings an en- 
largement of mind, and deepening of charity. Dwell- 
ing long in one nook, viewing the same classes of ob- 
jects through the same narrow mediums, trifles assume 
undue magnitude, prejudices fix, dislikes become per- 
manent, sickly imaginings take unto themselves a body, 
trains of morbid thought cut their way deep into the 
heart, and the mental tendencies take a coloring like 
monomania. A natural antidote for these evils is, to 
try a broader horizon, and become an interested ob- 
server of masses of mankind, as modified by clime, cir- 
cumstance, and varieties of culture. Perceiving all to 
be partakers of a common nature, whose springs are 
touched like our own, by joy or sorrow, by suffering, 
decay, and death, we enter into more affectionate broth- 
erhood with the great family of man, and live more 
" tremblingly along the line of human sympathies." 
We discover goodness where we had least expected it ; 
disinterested kindness in those who were denounced as 
heartless votaries of fashion ; warm attachment and 
lasting gratitude among menials ; and learn, with the 
heaven-instructed apostle, not to call any one " com- 



SYMPATHY. 387 

mon or unclean." Ere we are aware, some polemic or 
militant feature, which, as an excrescence, had de- 
formed our faith, exfoliates, and we find it possible to 
love those of differing creeds, and to respect every 
form in which the Supreme Being is worshipped with 
sincerity. 

Travelling teaches the value of sympathy. The 
smile of welcome, the caress of affection, are never 
prized according to their worth, until we feel the need 
of them in a foreign land. Suffering, and the depend- 
ence of sickness, among those who, without any tie of 
natural or national affinity, serve you but for money, 
are lessons never to be forgotten. If from the coldly 
rendered service, meted out by the expectation of re- 
ward, you were transferred to the care of those who, 
though born under a foreign sky, had been taught by 
the spirit of a Christian's faith to " be pitiful, be cour- 
teous," then in those periods of convalescence, when the 
events of a whole life sweep in vision through the soul, 
did you not resolve, if the Merciful Healer restored 
you to your own home, to obey more faithfully his 
precepts, to " use hospitality without grudging," and to 
"love the stranger," since you had thus learned to 
know the heart and the solace of a stranger ? 

Travelling should incite to a warmer and more en- 
during patriotism. The depth of the " amor patriae " is 
never fully disclosed, till we see the misty line of our 
native hills recede, or, after long absence, thrill with 
ecstasy, as they again gleam upon the horizon, like the 
wings of a guardian angel. Then, when every remem- 



388 LOVE OF COUNTRY AND OF HOME. 

bered cottage seems to stretch towards us a greeting 
hand, all the pleasures we have tasted, all the knowl- 
edge we have acquired during our wanderings, we long 
to pour out at the feet of our own blessed land. Every 
usage of order and beauty, which distinguish other 
regions, we desire to transplant to her forests, or to see 
blossoming around her firesides. We feel willing to 
have borne an exile's pain, if we may bring back, as a 
proof of our loyalty, one germ of improvement for her 
children, one leaf of olive for the garland that encircles 
Eer brow. 

Travelling unfolds to us the love of home, and the 
length and breadth of the domestic charities. While a, 
sojourner in the tents of strangers, perhaps while gazing 
on the glowing canvas of some ancient master, the clus- 
tered columns of some gorgeous temple, how often has 
the green vine, that waved over our own door, inter- 
posed itself, or the chirping of the callow nest among 
its branches overpowered for a time the fullest burst of 
foreign minstrelsy. As these modes of feeling gain 
ascendency, we pursue our researches more for the 
benefit of others than our own ; and selfishness yields 
to the exercise of the disinterested affections. We sus- 
tain fatigue with the spirit of a martyr, we adventure 
ourselves upon the mouldering tower, we thread the 
mazes of the labyrinth, we explore the mine, we 
ascend the cloud-crested mountain, not so much for 
personal enjoyment, as that we may be enabled to 
enliven our own fireside, to gratify the friend, or to 
hold spell-bound the wondering and delighted child. 



PIETY. 389 

Travelling ought to advance the growth of piety. v . 
Especially do those, who, in visiting foreign regions, 
leave behind the objects of their warmest attachment, 
find the separation a deep and perpetual discipline. 
Amid the outward semblance of joy, it acts secretly as 
a balance-check to all exultation of vanity. There 
may be gayety through the day, but at night-fall 
comes the homesickness. Who can say, amid his most 
earnest and fortunate pursuits, whether the hue of the 
tomb may not be spread over some face dearer than 
life itself. Then comes an intensity of prayer before 
unknown. Risks, perils, uncertainty of their fate, from 
whom so many leagues of fathomless ocean divide from 
view, drive to a stronger faith, a deeper humility, a 
more self-abandoning dependence on the Rock of Ages. 

Thus, amid the gains of the reflecting traveller, may 
be numbered that which is above all price, a more ad- 
hesive and tranquil trust in the " God of our salvation, 
who is the confidence of all the ends of the earth, and 
of those who are afar off upon the sea." 



RETROSPECTION. 



The pleasure derived from recurring to the scenes 
slightly sketched in this volume, is not impaired by the 
interval that has elapsed since they were beheld. Still 
their pictures hang unfaded in Memory's halls, and 
brighten many a musing hour. Some of their imagery 
has, indeed, assumed a different aspect, through the 
progress of man, and the providence of God. 

One of the most striking changes has been the paci- 
fication of two great realms, for ages at enmity. Of 
this event, History gave no prediction, save a transient 
gleam at the Field of the Cloth of Gold, or when their 
mailed hands grasped each other in the Crusades. 
Stow, they seem wisely to have determined no longer to 
verify the assertion of one of their own poets, that 

" Lands intersected by a narrow frith 
Abhor each other." 

May the united strength of these reconciled neigh- 
bors again close the temple of Janus, and restore to 
Europe the olive under which, for nearly forty years, 
she had found rest. 



FRANCE AND ENGLAND. 391 

France, as is her wont, has exhibited more varia- 
tions than her compeer. Louis Philippe, whom I saw 
in the plenitude of power, abdicated his throne in the 
course of seven years, and retiring with his family to 
England, passed forth from the shades of Claremont, 
on the morning of September 2d, 1850, to the tomb ; 
having been preceded to the Spirit Land by his eldest 
son, the hope of his house and heart, and by the sister 
with whom his affections were so long faithfully gar- 
nered. The empire seems both to prosper and rejoice 
under the strong sway of the third Napoleon, whose 
early discipline of adverse fortune has matured a sin- 
gular self-command, and facility for the hazardous 
science of government. 

Victoria still sits securely upon the throne of her 
ancestors, surrounded by more of domestic happiness 
than often appertains to so exalted a station. She 
folded her first nursling to her bosom but a few months 
after my arrival in England. Now, she is encircled by 
a group of eight healthful children, — four daughters 
and four sons, — between the oldest and the youngest 
of whom less than twelve and a half years intervene ; 
though with a precocity not unparalleled in courts, the 
Princess Royal is already an object of attraction to a 
foreign suitor. 

Among those who cheered my visit to the pleasant 
lands beyond the sea, either by courtesies to a stranger, 
or the welcome of a friend, it would seem that the list 
of the departed is large, for an interval of twice seven 
years. Is it no so ? 

From their high position have been swept the Duke 



392 DEPARTED FRIENDS. 

of Cambridge, the latest survivor of the children of 
George the Third ; the Duke of Wellington, the pride 
of the English people ; Count Roy, of the ancient re- 
gime of France ; the aged Lady Charleville ; and the 
amiable Countess of Blessington, who delighted to fos- 
ter the talents of others, as well as to exercise her own. 
Of the rulers of the lyre, have fallen, Wordsworth and 
Southey, Campbell and Montgomery, Talfourd and 
Joanna Baillie. Of other lights in the firmament of 
literature, Coleridge and Professor Wilson, Dr. Chal- 
mers, Dr. Arnold, and the Rev. Sydney Smith ; 
Lockhart, and the genial Allan Cunningham ; John 
Foster, the forcible essayist, and his placid friend, John 
Shephard, author of the "Autumn Dream;" Maria 
Edgeworth, Mary Russell Mitford, and Jane Porter ; 
Mrs. Opie and Mrs. Southey, Mrs. Shelley and Mrs. 
Hoffland. Of philosophers, the white-haired Arago ; 
of philanthropists, the serene Joseph John Gurney, and 
his blessed sister, Mrs. Fry, who has exchanged the 
sighing of the prisoner for the hymn of angels. 

Looking still more closely over the groups that re- 
membrance has embalmed, I miss the classic features of 
Baron Gurney, one of the twelve judges of England ; 
the benevolent countenance of his brother, William B. 
Gurney, long a reporter to Parliament, an earnest 
Christian and my true friend ; the pale, sublimated 
features of the Rev. T. Hankinson, so in harmony with 
his saintly sermons and his sacred lyre ; and of those 
who exercised sweet, sisterly influences over the sons 
of song, Dorothy Wordsworth and Mary Lamb. 



RETROSPECTION. 393 

Does any one ask why the dead, for whom we 
mourn, are thus numbered among " Pleasant Memo- 
ries ? " Why should they not be ? Bequeathing 
to us the melodies of genius, should they not hence- 
forth be among us as a cherished harp ? Having 
enriched earth with benefactions, should not their 
goodness remain as a perpetual presence? 

Yes. We would speak of them for our own com- 
fort, and as an honor to our common nature, until we 
reach that better land, where the tree of life never 
casts its leaf, and there is no pause in the realm of 
song. 

Change sweeps o'er all. The ancient columns quiver ; 

Through the rent chasm the exulting whirlpool flows ; 
The rifted rocks, man's mimic thunders shiver, 

And o'er the desert steals the wondering rose. 

The buried seed to perfect blossom springeth ; 

From its damp bed the lily of the lake ; 
The acorn o'er the land broad shadow flingeth, 

And song and wing the solemn groves awake. 

Where erst the pannier'd mule went slowly creeping, 
The plodding wheel its tardy message bore, 

The flame-fed steeds o'er hill and dale are sweeping, 
And thought electric darts from shore to shore. 

His last, sweet lay, the wan musician drinketh ; 
The pencil fades, — the artist's eye grows dim ; 



394 CHANGE. 

The mighty statesman from the senate sinketh, 
And eloquence in sackcloth mourns for him. 



The loft}'' Czar who held his millions quaking, 
Who woke the nations with a warrior-tread, 

On his camp-bed a pulseless sleep is taking, 
Pale as the serf that in his battles bled. 



Change sweeps o'er all. In home's sweet orb it worketh ; 

Clouds, silver-lined, grow dark with gushing rain ; 
But, prism'd on tears, the bow of promise lurketh, 

The Sun breaks forth, and all is bright again. 

Up comes the cradling to his father's stature; 

Down o'er his staff the man of prowess bends ; 
Unpitying Winter strips the pomp from nature, 

And snows o'er beauty's lustrous locks descend. 

To her first babe the joyous mother clingeth ; 

Another weepeth in her rifled nest, 
And to the grave's cold casket, grudging, bringeth 

The little diamond from her yearning breast. 



But the redeemed soul hath no declension; 

Tired sense may fail, — the eye forget its fire ; 
The nerve be severed in its earthly tension, 

The unchain'd spirit soareth toward its Sire ; 



FAREWELL. 395 

Back to the Giver of its life it tendeth, 

Up to His glorious throne where angels dwell : 

Oh, unknown friend ! that o'er this volume bendeth, 
That Home of rest be thine. A sweet farewell ! 



THE END 



PUBLISHED BY 

JAMES MUNROE & COMPANY, 

BOSTON AND CAMBRIDGE, 

Scenes in my Native Land. By Mrs. 

L. H. Sigourney. Tvoo steel plates. i6mo. pp.325. 
$1.25. 

" We welcome this volume as we do every thing with 
which the gifted author favors the public. It will be received 
as a pleasant contribution to the new works of the season, as 
a fine description of scenes in which we have a deep interest, 
and as a fine volume for the gift season of New Years. — 
Journal. 

" Mrs. Sigourney's character as a writer needs no commen- 
dation, for she is recognized as one of the best among those 
who grace the literature of our country, and her poetic effu- 
sions especially have in many instances become as familiar as 
household words.' " — Philadelphia U. S. Gazette. 

" It is composed in prose and verse — delightfully inter- 
mingled — and it pictures to our view some of the revolution- 
ary and other historical spots of our native land, that will 
never grow old in the eyes of true-hearted Americans." — 
Hartford Courant. 

" Like a true and good woman, she has selected the flowers 
that grew along her path of travel, and left the weeds to be 
garnered by those, whose nature it is to press some bitter drop 
from every object that presents itself in a pursuit after knowl- 
edge or pleasure." — Ne-iv World. 



Pleasant Memories of Pleasant Lands. 

By Mrs. L. H. Sigourney. Illustrated by tnjuo engrav- 
ings on steel. Neiv Edition, <with additions. i6mo. 
pp. 408. 

" Out of her Pleasant Memories of Pleasant Lands, Mrs. 
Sigourney has made quite a pleasant book. She pours out 
poetry with apparently the same facility as prose. But whether 
she employs blank verse, rhyme, or simple prose, she gives 
utterance to those kindly feelings and that pure sentiment that 
find a ready echo in the bosoms of all." — Christian Exam- 
iner. 

" The beautiful gleanings of such a mind as Mrs. Sigour- 
ney, and the more beautiful arrangements in such a volume, 
are priceless. ' Carpere et collegere ' belongs to few." — 
United States Gazette. 

" We have read this volume with interest, and although the 
author has not indeed (as she forewarns us) led us into new 
paths in the old ,world, yet she has contrived, by her very 
agreeable variety of prose and verse scattered along the way, 
to invest former acquaintances with much that is new and 
entertaining. She has apostrophized, in different metres, many 
of the places she has visited, and her poetry, as is with her 
invariably the case, is instructive and moral." — Boston Re- 
corder. 

" Poetry and prose interspersed, and both in Mrs. Sigour- 
ney's most felicitous manner, make the book doubly attrac- 
tive." — Knickerbocker. 

" This little volume is marked by the same characteristics 
that distinguish the fair author's preceding productions — an 
easy, graceful, and often felicitous flow of versification — a 
pure or elevated strain of thought and feeling, and an entire 
freedom from affectation which forms the besetting sin of the 
rising generation of Poets." — Boston Daily Advertiser. 



" This is the title of a beautiful volume from the pen of the 
gifted Mrs. Sigourney, a lady whose writings are familiar to 
our readers, and who has done much to elevate the character 
of American literature." — Boston Mercantile Journal. 

" It would be difficult for me to express the pleasure with 
which I first looked at, and then immediately went through, 
the beautiful duodecimo volume of Mrs. Sigourney, — her 
1 Pleasant Memories of Pleasant Lands.' The typographical 
execution is matter of pride ; both prose and verse resemble 
honey of roses, — delicacy, sweetness ; the kindest extract of 
the best of objects and purest of sentiments." — Philadelphia 
National Gazette. 

" It has all the charms which characterize the works of 
William Howitt, besides its poetical illustrations of some of 
the most romantic spots known over the wide earth." — Chris- 
tian Register. 

" It forms a beautiful and attractive volume of nearly 400 
pages." — Providence American. 

" A pleasant book by that pleasant woman — that New 
England favorite, Mrs. Sigourney. In its outward parapher- 
nalia the work is praiseworthy, and its inward appearance con- 
forms to this remark." — Boston Evening Transcript. 

" These memories of the lands visited by the author are 
truly pleasant. She scarcely passes a spot of any interest in 
France or England, without bestowing on it a few verses 
from her fluent pen. These are interspersed with passages of 
agreeable description and narrative in prose." — Nezu York 
Evening Post. 

" There is more originality in her writings, however, than 
in those of any other author of the same class, and to the same 
extent, with which we are acquainted." — Boston Notion. 

" They are almost always of an interesting, often of a 
piquant kind ; and the mode of treating them evinces a strong 



sensibility in the author to the true and beautiful in art and in 
life." — Boston Daily Advertiser. 

" Of Mrs. Sigourney's merits as a poet, and also as a prose 
writer, we have not now to speak for the first time. She is, 
if we may so say, one of the established reputations of the 
country, and her name to a work as author is a sure guarantee 
to its sale. With many thanks to its accomplished author, 
who by her simple, chaste, and devout spirit, can exert none 
but a pure and purifying influence on the sons and daughters 
of her native land." — Democratic Revie-iv. 



" One of the most recent critical notices of Mrs. Sigour- 
ney's poetry which we have seen was written for the Demo- 
cratic Review by the Hon. Alexander H. Everett, and we 
give his estimate of her powers, rather than attempt an ex- 
pression of our own. ' Her compositions,' says this able and 
eminent critic, ' being exclusively to the class of short poems, 
for the Pocahontas, which is the largest of them, does not, as 
we have said, exceed thirty or forty pages. They commonly 
express, with great purity, and evident sincerity, the tender 
affections which are so natural to the female heart, and the 
lofty aspirations after a higher and better state of being, which 
constitute the truly ennobling and elevating principle in art, 
as well as in nature. — Love and religion are the unvarying 
elements of her song. This is saying, in other words, that 
the substance of her poetry is of the highest order. If her 
powers of expression were equal to the purity and elevation 
of her habits of thought and feeling, she would be a female 
Milton, or a Christian Pindar.' " — Graham's Magazine. 



£ 199 



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